


And to the Victor, goes the Laurel

by BedlamAtDawn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-04-07 19:30:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 104,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19091611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BedlamAtDawn/pseuds/BedlamAtDawn
Summary: Cross-posted on Fanfiction.net.A world of chaos, a world of possibilities, that is the world that Kenna Cousland is born into, that is the world she will stand before and change if she is bold enough. Fortune favours the Bold, and the Couslands have never been meek nor have they shied away from the hard truths. SI/OC centric-story, Origins to Inquisitor, feedback welcome.





	1. Chapter One

_'Hurtled into chaos, you fight…and the world will shake before you.'_ –Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, Mother of Vengeance, Asha'bellanar.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 4th Drakonis 9:14 Dragon ~

Bryce Cousland didn't pace, nor did he grimace as long pained groans echoed from behind the firmly shut door of his bedchamber; pacing or grimacing would worry his children more than they already were.

No, Bryce sat in one of the chairs bought in specially for them to seat in, and he waited with a tensed back and clenched hands on the armrests as he watched his three children.

Amazingly, Fergus almost seemed ready to drift off in his own seat. Only the disapproving glower of Ser Kenneth Nolan—their Commander of the land Forces, and Fergus' mentor—kept his stormy green eyes open and focused on his younger siblings, mostly on Brannon as Caitlyn was in good hands.

Brannon was carefully carving another toy ship—the blood of the Storm Coast was strong in his second son, Eleanor both celebrated and cursed as their second son was as restless as the sea—with steady hands, but a tense back.

Brannon was only eight, but he had memories of Eleanor's pregnancy with Caitlyn—vague though they were compared to even Fergus, who was three-years his senior and was six when Eleanor had Caitlyn—and knew all was not well with this pregnancy despite the best efforts of his parents in shielding their children from the truth.

Caitlyn, who was going to turn five this year, had taken-over Aldous' lap and was mostly content to listen to the sage wax about the history of the Couslands and how Bann Cousland gathered the lords under their banner to drive out the werewolves from the lands—obviously Aldous wouldn't have any trouble teaching Caitlyn as he did with Bryce's sons—with only the odd flinch as Eleanor's groans reached a higher and more pained pitch every now and again that Aldous soothed with one strong hand down her back.

Perhaps it should have been Bryce soothing his little girl, reassuring her that everything was going to be alright, but Bryce had never been keen on lying to his children, and he was too consumed by his own worry to soothe his children.

Eleanor wasn't as young as she used to be, her blonde hair—that only Caitlyn had inherited thus far—had been slowly turning grey to match his own greying locks, wrinkles were appearing around her mouth, eyes and creasing lines on her forehead.

She had fallen pregnant several times since Caitlyn and before this one, but she had always miscarried them before they felt comfortable in telling anyone.

This pregnancy had been hard, the sickness had lasted longer, and the mid-wife had restricted Eleanor to bed long before the last month came upon them.

Eleanor had kept a cheerful smile on her face when the children visited her, had kept herself busy by sewing and embroidering tiny clothes and blankets for their youngest child, had kept a strong front up when Bryce had fretted over her and worried.

Bryce? Bryce worried, worried to almost to the point of sickness—something that made Nan rant at him, informing him bluntly that he better take care of himself as they were too busy with the Teyrna to worry about his fool self—and tried to claw up some of the excitment that Eleanor felt as the babe quicken in her womb and her belly swelled.

But all he could do was worry, worry that he would lose his wife, worry that this child would be born sickly and die, that Eleanor would only have the chance the cradle a dying babe and not the strong babe she told—reassured herself—him was quickening in her womb.

He worried that the babe would be born still and silent, he worried what that would do to Eleanor. She had grieved each child they had lost, lost before they could be properly called babes in the name. She would mourn for this one more then the others, Bryce knew, as this one had lasted to term, this one had seemed to prove that they would thrive.

It would break her heart if it died, but Bryce—selfishly, horribly—would prefer a dead child to a dead wife. It was a thought, a desire, that he shared with no one.

"It's been hours," Brannon spoke softly, his eyes fixed on the ship taking shape under his hands and blade. "Shouldn't it have been over by now?"

"Babes," Ser Kenneth began, his voice a deep rumble, "do things in their own time, and nothing anyone does will make them conscious of our time; you can beg, you can cry, you can shout, and it won't make much difference—expect make an upset babe that will attempt to deafen you with their displeasure."

"Those words will hearten them to their new sibling, no doubt," Aldous remarked dryly.

"I speak the truth," Ser Kenneth shrugged his massive shoulders almost dismissively. "The boys should already know this by now, considering they should remember the little Lady's birth and such."

Aldous made a noise in his throat, unconvinced, as he turned back to entraining said little Lady.

They were all startled when a loud scream of almost frustration echoed from behind the door.

Bryce stood as sudden silence took over both rooms, leaning forwards as he strained his ears to hear the muffled words.

"My baby…my baby…" he could just make out Eleanor's weak voice, the muttering of the mid-wife and Nan, but he couldn't hear anything from said baby.

Bryce felt his heart sink as the moments passed and the despair in Eleanor's voice grew.

Then suddenly there was a loud and disgruntled wail that was the most beautiful thing that Bryce had heard in years.

"And now it's over," Ser Kenneth laughed as he clasped a heavy hand onto Bryce's back. "They've got a set of lungs on them."

Yes, they did. Strong and clear lungs, there was no hint of weakness or obvious breathlessness in the disgruntled wailing of his youngest child. If he hadn't waited in silent agony, he wouldn't have even known that the babe was worryingly silent for so long.

Somehow, Bryce thought this child would be a different kind of trouble compared to his other children. And somehow, Bryce didn't mind and was almost looking forward to it.

* * *

 

Nan clucked her tongue as the newest Cousland flailed and wailed as she bathed the blood and womb from her skin and knew without a doubt that this Cousland would be more trouble than her elder siblings.

"Not even ten minutes old, and already causing your mother grief," Nan groused as the babe almost screeched in dismay as Nan washed the blood from the copper curls—that she had obviously inherited from her grandfather, Bann Mac Eanraig, and something the Storm Giant would no doubt be delighted about when he met his newest granddaughter—covering her tiny head, her small face scrunched up in a scowl.

Nan hadn't been impressed when the babe was born silent nor was she impressed by the mid-wife's fussing as the Teyrna weakly called for her baby with increasing dismay.

A firm smack to the buttocks had made the baby wail in a disgruntled manner and allowed the Teyrna to weep slightly in relief.

The babe's lungs were strong and clear from the sound of her wails, all her fingers and toes were formed properly and in their correct place, her limbs were strong considering how she was waving them about while Nan washed her.

She may be a bit small—a lot smaller than her elder siblings were, Nan would admit grudgingly to herself and no one else—but nothing some good feeding wouldn't fix—despite the mutterings of the daft woman they had to relay on now their old mid-wife had retired.

The only thing of note that Nan would remark about was her eyes. It seemed the newest Cousland didn't want to favour either side of her heritage and sported different coloured eyes; the left was the stormy green of the Banns of the Storm Coast while the right was the blue of the Couslands.

An interesting look, an unmistakable look. No matter what, Nan knew, she would always know this Cousland from just her eyes as there was no hiding them.

"You are going to be trouble, aren't you?" Nan almost huffed as she towelled the babe off and began dress and then swaddle her despite her flailing limbs that seemed determined not to be restrained. "You won't get the best of old Nan."

The little Cousland scowled up at her with a red face and a renewed wail of disapproval as Nan allowed a small grin of triumph cross her lips as she held the swaddled babe.

The little Cousland would have to try harder to best her, Nan thought to herself smugly as she turned.

She nodded in approval to see that the elves had stripped the bed and remade it with fresh linen—the soiled sheets had been bundled up and would be discreetly disposed off when young eyes wouldn't see—and had helped the Teyrna into a new night-gown with a laced up front—for easy access for the babe to feed—and had propped her up with plump pillows.

One had even thought to re-braid the Teyrna's greying fair hair when they sponged the sweat from her—Nan was almost impressed by their forethought—while another was making the pain tonic that would be mixed with the Teyrna's water for when she had finished feeding the babe and easing the worry of her husband.

It would aid the Teyrna with her sleeping and ease the lingering soreness from birth, Nan approved of the elf getting it ready.

She didn't approve of the fool mid-wife still hanging around, frowning to herself as she wrote in her book and possibly worrying the Teyrna with her concerns.

If her hands were free, Nan knew she would have gladly thrown the woman out like she had once thrown the Teyrn out during the birth of Fergus.

Instead Nan shot the woman a scowl and made her way to the waiting mother, holding the wriggling baby close, and was almost amused by the disgruntled pitch of the mewls the baby was uttering as she couldn't wriggle free from her blanket.

The Lady's stormy green eyes lit up, despite the exhaustion pulling at her face, and reached out with slightly shaking arms.

Nan settled the baby in her mother's arm, guiding her Lady's arms until the babe was cradled to her mother's chest before she stepped back and allowed her Lady to tug the gown aside and give her child the first feed.

A good feeder, Nan noted in satisfaction. No problems latching on, she was feeding strongly, and that meant it would be easier to feed her up.

The mid-wife made a sound as she noticed the Teyrna feeding, making a motion as she was going to move towards them, and Nan stopped her in her tracks with one look.

Her 'help' wasn't needed anymore, she had already shown herself to be overly fussy and even useless.

Nan had been there for the birth of all three of the elder Cousland siblings, she had cared after the Teyrna and the babe each time and didn't need some green mid-wife sprouting her opinions and making the Teyrna unduly worry about things.

"Father will be pleased," the Teyrna spoke softly, shifting slightly so she could run her fingers against the fine copper curls that covered her daughter's tiny head. "He always despaired that none of his children inherited his fiery locks."

"Let's hope the Bann doesn't attempt to give her a ship in his pleasure," Nan remarked dryly, leaving off the word 'again' though it was clearly heard by her Lady as she let a small smile curl her lips and gave an amused huff—obviously too tired and sore to properly laugh.

"I'm sure he'll remember that a ship is not a gift to give to his newly born grandchild," she replied, remembering the pride that made her father's chest puff out when he saw that Fergus had inherited the stormy green eyes of the Storm Coast and his declaration that he would get a ship built for him as soon as he could.

Thankfully, she had been able to dissuade her father from that idea though she knew that he had built a ship—not for Fergus like he first declared, but for Brannon that had showed himself to have the salty blood of the Storm Coast despite Brannon inheriting his father's Cousland blue eyes and dark hair.

"What's the baby's name?" the mid-wife asked, interrupting their conversation without a care—Nan really didn't care for her.

"Kenna," the Teyrna decided after a moment, "her name is Kenna Cousland."

"Fitting," Nan snorted slightly as she glanced at the babe's copper curls—born from fire fitted her well.

The mid-wife nodded as she noted it down.

"I suppose we should put your husband out of his misery," Nan spoke wryly making her Lady smile slightly and nod as she shifted.

"Only Bryce though," she told Nan in a weary tone. "I know the children will be worried, but—"

"Leave them to me, m'lady," Nan interrupted with a firm tone. "I send them off to bed, they can wait till the morning."

A flicker of relief went across the Teyrna's pale face which just made Nan more determined to make sure that the Teyrna was able to properly rest soon.

* * *

 

She was tiny, was Bryce's first thought when he caught sight of the baby that Eleanor was cradling with a tired but loving smile.

For the first time since he first saw Fergus, Bryce felt too big and even clumsy as he carefully lowered himself onto the bed beside his wife.

"Do you want to hold her?" Eleanor asked him, already moving to hand her precious daughter to him and he almost panicked—what if he hurt her? She was so much smaller than her elder siblings had been.

But he automatically accepted her, arms remembering easily what to do as he cradled his youngest daughter close.

"What's her name?" he asked quietly, noting with some relief that she had a good weight to her—not as fragile as her small size seemed to imply.

"Kenna," Eleanor told him, already half-sleep as she leaned more firmly into the pillows.

"Go to sleep, love," he chuckled, leaning to brush a kiss on her forehead. "I'll look after her for you."

Eleanor hummed slightly as she drifted off as Bryce pulled back.

He glanced town and meet the curious mismatched gaze of his youngest daughter.

"You're certainly unique," he told her softly, smiling as she seemed to make a face at him. "That's not a bad thing, Pup."

Her soft face seemed to convey doubt as she watched him.

"You're going to cause trouble for Nan, aren't you?" Bryce asked her, amused. "Not even an hour old, and already showing such attitude."

She yawned almost pointedly as she wriggled closer to him.

Bryce chuckled as he held her closer; his fears and his worries had fled the moment he saw both his wife and child safe and healthy, and he finally let himself feel some excitement for his youngest.

* * *

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 5th Drakonis 9:14 Dragon ~

Kenna stared, almost puzzled, up at her elder siblings as they peered into her cradle with curiosity making Eleanor smile slightly and Bryce to grin.

"She's tiny," Fergus pointed out as Caitlyn reached out for one of Kenna's little fists.

"Is she meant to be this small?" Bran asked as he frowned in worry while Caitlyn gave a delighted smile when Kenna's fist clamped down on one of her wandering fingers.

"I don't know," Fergus frowned almost thoughtfully. "I think you were bigger."

"She's perfect," Caitlyn declared in a tone that dared her brothers to disagree with her.

Neither did so; they knew better as Caitlyn only had to wobble her lower lip and make her big blue eyes a bit watery to bring the adults' wrath upon them—they also weren't going to say anything against their new sister while in front of their parents.

"I like her red hair," Bran offered at the same time as Fergus said; "Her eyes are pretty."

Together they grimaced as Caitlyn looked up at them unimpressed by their attempts to agree with her while Kenna gummed at Caitlyn's finger, happily ignoring her elder siblings.

"I'll never get grandchildren from them," Eleanor sighed slightly forlorn making her husband laugh.

"I think it's a bit soon to think about grandchildren," he told his wife, a grin still pulling at his lips as he watched his four children. "They haven't even started shaving yet."

Eleanor hummed, seemingly unconvinced, though smiling as she watched her children bond together.

"Is she meant to be this quiet?" Brannon asked as he brushed his fingers against the fine cooper curls of his youngest sister.

Kenna stopped gumming Caitlyn's finger and seemed to eye him with her dual-coloured eyes—why she didn't have eyes the same colour, Brannon didn't know, though he supposed it was nice that Fergus wasn't the only one with their mother's stormy green eyes, well kind of—made a face at him.

"I don't know," Fergus told him with a shrug as he made a face back at Kenna. "You two just slept when I first saw you."

Kenna gave an open-mouthed expression of babyish joy—flashing her pink gums to them as spit bubbled on her tongue—and almost cooed up at Fergus, waving her free fist at him.

"She's happy," Caitlyn cooed with a delighted smile as she brushed her thumb against the fist clutching her finger. "She likes us."

Brannon wasn't so overjoyed as his younger sister. Kenna was a baby; babies liked most things after all.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 7th Drakonis 9:14 Dragon ~

A raven hopped onto the open window of the main bedchambers of the Castle, keen eyes noting the sleeping forms of the parents in the bed before dismissing them as they caught sight of the cradle.

A flap of their wings pushes them into the room and then the raven's form twists and grew to the form of a tall woman with long white hair.

Golden eyes glanced towards the sleeping Couslands, a twist of her magic seeping into their minds kept them from stirring as she moved with a predator's grace towards the cradle that held the youngest Cousland.

"Such a tiny thing to be thrown into this chaos filled world of mine," Flemeth muttered to the sleeping babe. "But you are a Cousland, you will not cower from chaos. No, you will stand with burning resolve and fight—but what will you fight for? What will you change? I don't know, and that makes you so interesting."

Flemeth almost grinned in delight, a bare of her teeth as she stared down at the unaware babe; unaware of Flemeth, unaware of the woman of legend and great power had come from her Wilds to see her, unaware of what made her truly unique, unaware of the power she held.

"Death and rebirth have changed you," she informed the babe. "It has made you more, unique in this world and the last—a new player for this game. It is a good thing that no magic runs through your veins, the thought of all that potential going to waste locked up in some Tower? It's maddening."

She brushed one finger across the soft fine copper strands that covered such a fragile head.

"The world is full of possibilities, and you will see them all," she muttered softly, "which will you choose? Which will you nudge others to choose? I don't know, but I can't wait to see what you will do."

She'll grow, she'll learn, and she will be fierce—all Couslands were, fiercely loyal, fiercely stubborn, fiercely bold in every action, Fortune favours the Bold after all—but she will never know the true depth of her uniqueness, she'll never have to confront the memory of death and fear and doubt until she was moments from death herself—that will be her memory though, this Cousland child's memory not the memory of who she used to be and would never fully remember.

No, this Cousland may have an inkling sometime in the future, but she'll never truly know—Fate had been merciful to this child despite the heavy burden of a 'gift' they had bestowed on her in turn.

She leaned back from the cradle and smiled down at the babe.

"Live, young Cousland, grow strong and you will stand above your siblings," Flemeth told her. "You will stand against the chaos, you will bring change, and the world will know your name, they will tremble in your wake."

Flemeth turned, she had sated her curiosity, and with a twist the woman of legend was gone, and a raven retook her place.

Kenna Cousland frowned in her sleep as the raven soared out of the window, a sleepy snuffle leaving her before she settled into a deep sleep—unaware of the powerful force that had visited her, unaware of the prophecy the Legend had bestowed upon her, unaware of what made her unique.


	2. Chapter Two

_"When you get right down to it, we're not responsible for anyone but ourselves. You can choose to be free, or you can choose to be saddled with all the world's problems."_ – 'Admiral' Isabela, friend of the Champion of Kirkwall.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 17th Drakonis 9:14 Dragon ~

Fearchar Mac Eanraig was never someone anyone had ever described as small—there was a reason he was given the moniker of Storm Giant after all.

Age had not diminished him. No, from his broad shoulders, large hands and protruding gut of a man that enjoyed both food and ale greatly without the constant pressure of battle to keep him in shape, he was nowhere near considered small or weak from age.

His once fiery locks had greyed and whitened over the years, his skin was weather-beaten and creased like old leather and his beard refused to be anything but bushy, Fearchar would freely admit that he was a bear of a man.

 _But_ , Eleanor thought fondly, _he was as gentle as anything when it came to those he loved_.

Scarred and calloused hands—the hands of a sailor—carefully took Eleanor's precious youngest, big forearms almost dwarfed her tiny daughter as he cradled Kenna with a loving and awed look in his stormy green eyes—the same look he gave every one of his grandchildren, the same look her late mother had once confided in her that he gave each of his children when he first held them—and he positively beamed as he took in the fine copper of his youngest granddaughter's hair—the only one of his many grandchildren to have inherited his fiery locks.

"What's her name?" he asked his daughter, though both already knew he was aware of it—it was a ritual they had done since Eleanor had placed Fergus into his arms just over a decade ago.

"Kenna," Eleanor told him, her own loving smile curving her lips. "Her name is Kenna."

"A good, strong name," he almost boomed, chuckling when one of Kenna's hand flailed out as if she was attempting to smack him in reproach for startling her. "A fitting one too."

He looked at her then, a frown of concern appearing between his brows.

"She'll be your last one," it was a statement, not a question, and while Eleanor grimaced at the barely veiled demand in her father's tone, she nodded all the same.

Bryce had been firm, no more children. They had four children, four healthy and precious children, they did not need more, he had told her. He loved Kenna, he had reassured her, but he had worried that he would lose her all throughout her most difficult pregnancy. She was not as young as she used to be, he had softly reminded her, another may very well kill her.

Eleanor had looked at the peaceful sleeping face of her youngest and felt a grief clench her heart at the thought of not being there to see her grow up, at the thought of not seeing Fergus married and settled, of not seeing the face of her first grandchild, of not seeing Caitlyn's brilliance truly shine, to not see Brannon captain his own ship, and she had agreed—Nan was keeping her supplied with a special tea.

"Yes," she told her father, her gaze settling on her precious youngest. "No more children."

She didn't need to look up to know the relief would spread across her father's face. While he loved all the grandchildren that his children gave him, he was wary of them having children later in life after complications with Eleanor's younger sister had led her mother to be weak and frail for the rest of her life.

Mother may have still been alive, Eleanor knew, if she hadn't Emogen though never of her parents had resented her for it. It had been Mother's choice despite the risks to have her youngest daughter, something that Eleanor understood well after having Kenna.

So much could have gone wrong, Eleanor acknowledged to herself, and yet she would go through it again with all the uncertainty and fear to hold Kenna in her arms, to look upon her little face.

"I suppose that Howe boy has already arrived," Fearchar grunted as he changed the subject, one thick finger held out for Kenna to attempt to capture—he smiled at the look of what could be called confusion on her soft face as her little fist did not completely close around his finger, her fist clenching and unclenching as she attempted to completely capture the foreign digit.

"Yes, Rendon is here with his family," Eleanor didn't roll her eyes though she wanted to—she didn't allow her children to roll their eyes and led by example despite the fact none of her oldest children were around and Kenna couldn't see her, wouldn't see her as her baby eyes were focused completely on this large stranger holding her and the finger that wouldn't allow her to hold it properly hostage.

Her father had never taken to Rendon Howe, one of Bryce's oldest friends, and always referred to him as the Howe boy despite the fact he—and indeed all of them—were approaching forty now.

Fearchar grunted almost dismissively at Eleanor's correction, he remembered the boy's father—traitorous bitter old bastard—and thought he took after him more than his uncle—Byron was a good man, that fought for what was right, not like his coward and traitorous elder brother.

He remembered Eleanor's letter home after the Howe boy's wedding to Eliane Bryland, how her own brother refused to attend the wedding. There was something wrong with the boy if his wife's own brother refused to have anything to do with him—them—despite them once being good friends.

"Is the Bryland lad here too?" Fearchar asked curiously, wondering how Eleanor would be juggling that headache.

"Yes, Leonas is here too," she grimaced slightly, remembering the way the Eliane's face had fallen when Leonas had ignored her with his young son, Audric, at his side as he pointedly only greeted Bryce familiarly—his wife had remained in South Reach to rule while her husband and son was away.

"This is going to be an interesting Blessing," he mused with clear amusement making his eldest daughter glare at him with stormy green eyes—his eyes, the eyes of the Storm Coast that only Fergus and partly Kenna of his Cousland grandchildren had inherited despite the fact it was clear that Brannon had inherited more of the salty blood of the Storm Coast.

"Thank you for reminding me, Father," she remarked dryly making him grin at her.

"It was no trouble at all, Seawolf," he told her cheerfully, enjoying the way she bristled at her old moniker—a moniker she had hidden from her children for some odd reason that baffled Fearchar.

* * *

 

Whatever jealousy or hints of resentment that may have been building up in her children were gone with the arrival of her father, Eleanor noticed.

He kept hold of Kenna, one strong forearm holding her in place as she dozed against his neck while he sat on the floor and leaning against a chair. In said chair was her eldest daughter, Caitlyn was determinedly attempting to braid her grandfather's coarse hair with a small frown on her face as her fingers moved with increasing speed.

(Eleanor fondly remembered doing the same when she was younger during brief periods of peace. He had never minded, in fact he had encouraged it, as he believed it to be a type of training to make clever and quick fingers. Her father had once said that the braids women put their hair into were sometimes more complex than any sailor's knots.)

Brannon had brought his best model ships for his grandfather to look at, leaning forward as Fearchar picked up each ship to examine closely, almost bubbling with impatience as he waited for either a nod of approval or a slight frown from his grandfather.

Fergus was the only one talking to Fearchar, both gushing and complaining as he spoke of his role as squire under Ser Kenneth Nolan, a smile on his face growing each time Fearchar proved he was listening by asking questions about what he said.

As a man that raised five children amid war and often on warships, he was used to multitasking when it came to children. Four grandchildren—one just an infant that was content to sleep—and in a time of peace made it easier for him to juggle their attention and show interest in their own interests.

It would be harder, Eleanor knew, when her brothers arrived with their gaggle of children in tow.

Emogen wouldn't be coming to Kenna's Blessing, Ostwick was too far away to justify traveling for a Blessing and she was merely weeks away from having her own baby—no, she would not be journeying from the Free Marches in her condition, and Kenna would still be too young for Eleanor to feel comfortable taking her all the way to the Free Marches for Emogen's youngest child's Blessing.

They would stick to letters informing them of their children and such for now. It would be several years before Emogen would be able come and visit her elder sister, perhaps bringing her new babe to meet Kenna when she did.

Eleanor smiled, pleased, as she watched her children and her father bond together—now all she had to worry about was Audric Bryland and the Howe children clashing due to the frosty relationship between their parents.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Drakonis 9:14 Dragon ~

Fergus had the dubious—he liked using the word dubious, it made him feel more grown up, and the look of surprise of Aldous' face when Fergus used it correctly was something he would treasure—pleasure of having to entertain both Audric Bryland and Nathaniel Howe together alone—or at least until his cousins and uncles arrived.

Neither of the cousins were rather friendly with each other. They had just met as this was the first time that Leonas had brought Audric to a Blessing as he had come to Caitlyn's alone and stern-faced when his sister had attempted to introduce her children to him.

Both were aware of the frosty relationship between their parents, and both had taken a dislike to the other because of it—which was just brilliant because Fergus was in the middle of it.

Fergus had decided in all his eleven-year-old wisdom that the best thing to do was take them to the training grounds.

He would admit that it may not have been the best idea, he thought to himself as he winced in sympathy from the rather hard hit that Nathaniel had landed on his younger cousin—he was suddenly very glad he had picked up the wooden training swords and not the blunted metal ones when Audric in return aimed towards his cousin's head.

"You are an idiot," his younger brother informed him as he came to a stop beside him, looking over the fence at the cousins that looked one second away from throwing down their swords and just brawling. "How are you going to explain why they are covered in bruises to Mother?"

"I thought it would help," Fergus defended weakly, wincing as Audric threw down his sword and lunged towards his cousin with a war-cry. "Ser Kenneth always said that sparring helps sort out your emotions."

"They are definitely sorting out their emotions," Bran remarked dryly as the two cousins wrestled on the packed dirt ground.

"Shouldn't you be with Thomas?" Fergus asked between gritted teeth and Bran gave him a look that he had to have copied from Aldous—all arched eyebrows conveying doubt to his intelligence that Aldous used to give him when he read over Fergus' dismal essays on what he had taught him, because of course Aldous couldn't just accept that Fergus knew what he taught, Fergus had to prove it by writing essays which he was terrible at.

"He's three," Bran pointed out slowly. "His mother keeps him close."

Fergus grunted, a flush crawling up his neck, and turned back to the cousins only to wince as he realised that Audric—blonde, slim and a year his junior—had clamped his jaws around Nathaniel's left arm to the older boy's howl—Nathaniel being almost two years Fergus' senior and should be better than this, damn it all—and making the dark-haired boy pull on his cousin's blonde locks, only succeeding in making Audric ground his teeth in deeper.

"Mother is going to kill you," Bran told him as he stared in horrified awe as teeth and claws was brought into this grudge match between the cousins.

"Not if Ser Kenneth doesn't first," Fergus retorted grimly as he caught sight of his burly mentor marching towards them with a thunderous scowl on his face that only grew as the curses and yelps leaving the cousins' lips grew louder.

Yes, Fergus reflected grimly, it wasn't his best idea.

* * *

 

Caitlyn was blissfully unaware of her brother's misfortune as she and Delilah Howe compared their embroidery.

Caitlyn showing off the white shift she had carefully stitched the Chantry sun burst on that she was hopefully of Kenna wearing during her Blessing while Delilah showed her pale yellow cotton gown that she was stitching small bears—the bears of Amaranthine—along the hem of the skirt in return.

Their time together was peaceful as they talked about the hardship of having brothers—who never wanted to play the same games that they wanted to—how they were enjoying their lessons—Delilah enjoyed maths while Caitlyn so far had enjoyed learning about history, but she was sure that may change as Aldous expanded her lessons—and about the trouble their brothers often caused—Fergus had once broke one of the porcelain dolls that her father had brought Caitlyn from Orlais while Nathaniel had ruined one of Delilah's old dresses when pretending to be their great-grandfather and fighting darkspawn as a Grey Warden.

Their mothers sat a small distance away—Kenna tucked into the cradle at Eleanor's side while Thomas was cuddled on Eliane's lap—and were chatting almost as happily as their daughters.

That was until Nan entered with her lips pressed so tightly together that one could barely see them apart a thin pale lip.

"My Ladies," Nan began, her voice almost as tight as her lips, "I'm afraid there has been some trouble with the boys."

Eleanor Cousland closed her eyes as she counted backwards from ten while Eliane looked more resigned then surprised.

"I suppose it's my son and nephew that's the cause of this trouble?" the Arlessa asked with a hint of a sigh.

Nan nodded slightly making the Arlessa sighed deeply.

"I see," Eliane pursued her lips slightly, "I best deal with it before Rendon or Leonas does something rash."

"And I best talk with Fergus," Eleanor declared with a frown, "as he was meant to be watching after them."

Sewing forgotten on their laps, Delilah and Caitlyn watched their mothers stand with their youngest children—Thomas on Eliane's hip and Kenna cradled in Eleanor's arms—and swept out with all the fury of a barely contained storm in hunt for their wayward sons.

"Boys," Delilah declared with a shake of her head making Caitlyn agree.

"I wonder what they did this time," Caitlyn wondered making Delilah look thoughtful.

"You don't think they had a fight, do you?" she asked her younger friend and the two girls exchanged a look.

Quickly putting aside their sewing, they decided they had to see just what their foolish older brothers had done to displease Nan.

They ran on light feet to catch up with their angry mothers, both silently delighted at the thought of chastisement that was in their future.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 20th Drakonis 9:14 Dragon ~

Eleanor felt nothing but relief when the Blessing was over. It had thankfully gone without problem—despite Nathaniel Howe and Audric Bryland attending with bruises of various colours and scratches decorating their skin, standing beside their unamused fathers on opposite sides of the small Chantry.

The only one that had been amused by the scuffle between the boys had been her father.

He had almost snorted out his ale through his nose when the bruised, scratched and shame-faced boys skulked into the dining room that night followed by the trembling legged form of Fergus.

Fergus had the dubious pleasure of running backwards and forwards across the training grounds in full practice armour until his legs gave out and then pulled back to his feet to go through his cool-down stretches as his punishment for letting what should have been a spar turn into brawling only drunken louts would be proud of—Ser Kenneth's own words.

Eleanor quietly informed her husband that she would never again have both the Howes and the Brylands under her roof at the same time ever again. Bryce had grimaced but had nodded as he remembered Rendon and Leonas almost coming to blows like their sons had when they found out about the brawl.

Whatever hope of reconciling their friendship had quietly died which had saddened Bryce.

Leonas and Rendon were his oldest friends, he had wanted to bring them back together in friendship, but now knew that was a lost cause. They would always be friends with him, Bryce knew, but never again with each other.

Eleanor, quite honestly, would feel nothing but relief after they left.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have figured out how to use this site!

‘ _People fear, not death, but having life taken from them. Many waste the life given to them, occupying themselves with things that do not matter. When the end comes, they say they did not have enough time to spend with loved ones, to fulfil dreams, to go on adventures they only talked about….But why should you fear death if you are happy with the life you have led? if you can look back on and say, ‘Yes, I am content.’ It is enough_.’ –Archmage Wynne of the Tower of Magi of Ferelden, Representative of the Aequitarians, Veteran of the Fifth Blight, friend to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.

* * *

 

 

~ Highever’s Harbour, Highever, 20th Bloomingtide, 9:16 Dragon ~

Eleanor Cousland sighed as the sea breeze tried to undo her greying fair hair from the braided bun that she had placed it in.

Never before had she felt sadness when confronted by the sea—she was a daughter of the Storm Coast, the sea was in her blood, she had been raised on warships—but today she felt sadness, a sense of lost and a heavy-heart as she stared at the ship that would be taking her Bran away for several years.

Her precious Kenna was bawling, the toddler clinging to her elder brother with all the strength in her chubby limbs.

“Mother…” Bran pleaded towards her, a tanned hand rubbing his youngest sister’s back in a vain attempt to soothe her, his blue eyes screaming a plea of help.

“Stay!” Kenna wailed, snot and tears marring her face that she then buried into her brother’s neck making him grimace and look desperately towards his mother. “Bran! Stay!”

Eleanor took her wailing toddler, ignoring her flailing limbs as she attempted to keep hold of her brother, and held her close.

Kenna turned her sadness into fury, screaming a battle-cry that made Eleanor wince, and balling her fists up as she glared furiously around her—Eleanor was somewhat relieved that Kenna didn’t lash out in her tantrums, that she may scream and shout and cry, but she never lashed in the violence when overcome with her emotions.

Eleanor looked towards her youngest son, her darling Bran, and tried to commit every detail to memory. The way the breeze tugged at his dark hair, his Cousland blue eyes staring sadly at Kenna, his tanned skin from hours spent outside and on the little row and sailboat that her father had given him to learn the very basics of sailing. He would be different when he returned, older and taller. A true raider of the Storm Coast, even a captain of his own ship, no longer her little boy.

“You have to write letters,” Caitlyn, her beautiful eldest daughter, demanded her elder brother. “Every week if possible.”

“It takes about a week to get a letter from the Storm Coast to Highever,” Bran argued against his fair-haired sister making her sniff in almost disgust.

“That’s only if you use courier,” she informed him smartly. “Grandfather has several ravens trained to deliver messages.”

“Important messages,” Bran remined her making her glare up at him with her own Cousland blue eyes flashing with warning.

“And are we not important? Isn’t it important to reassure your family of you continued health and happiness?” she asked him sharply making Eleanor smile slightly—her little politician in the making, she thought almost fondly.

“You’re impossible,” Bran sighed as he tugged her into a hug.

“Thank you,” she informed him primly as she pulled back, tears brimming in her eyes as she stepped back from Bran in an attempt not to delve into tears that would rival her younger sister—eight years-old and already believing herself to be grown up, Eleanor thought to herself with a hint of bittersweet pride.

“When you return I’ll be a knight,” Fergus, her bold Fergus, promised his brother. “And I will still be knocking you on your arse, no matter what you pick up when you’re gone.”

“Fergus!” Eleanor chided as Bryce chuckled from beside her making her give him a short glare—he was not helping!

“When I come back,” Bran began almost mildly, “I’m going to knock you on your smug ass and laugh at the look on your smug face.”

“Brannon!” Eleanor chided again as Fergus grinned at his brother.

“You can try little brother, you can try,” he taunted, and Eleanor shook her head in disbelief.

“Little boys, I’m surrounded by little boys,” she despaired quietly as Kenna rested her head wearily on her shoulder, worn out by her fierce emotional upheaval. “I suppose I’m lucky I have two daughters to balance it out.”

Bran grinned back, the fierce power of the storm just there in his blue eyes—by the time Bran came back, Eleanor knew, the power would be there in full force—and Caitlyn leaned into her mother for comfort as Bryce stepped forward for his own farewells.

“Stay safe,” Bryce told him as he pulled his youngest son into a hug. “Learn all your taught but remember to have fun. Know we love you and we will be here to welcome you home happily.”

“I know, Father,” Bran told him, clutching his father hard for a moment. “I love you.”

“And we love you, my darling boy,” Eleanor told him almost tearfully. “Go before we all delve into tears.”

Bran smiled at her, a teary little thing that made her want to pull him into her arms and never let go, before turning on his heels and almost running towards the ship that would take him to the Storm Coast.

He didn’t look back, Eleanor didn’t expect him to, looking back would have made him want to stay and he couldn’t stay, everything had already been arranged and Bran had been so excited before the reality of his leaving had sunk in this morning—part of Eleanor felt angry at her father, her father who had cheerfully promised to make her darling boy into a proper Stormer seemingly without thought towards his own daughter’s feelings towards having her son taken from her for several years.

(Five years, Fearchar Mac Eanraig had told them, five years and he’ll come back a captain of his own ship and on his way to gaining a moniker, her father promised them. Fifteen, like Eleanor had been fifteen and captaining her own crew and ship though thankfully he wouldn’t be expected in taking down Orlesian warships, not like Eleanor had and did with great skill.)

Kenna gave one last wail as her brother disappeared up the gangplank, a tired and mournful one as she sniffed into her mother’s neck.

“It’s okay, Kenna,” Fergus told his little sister, “when he’s back you’ll be able to knock him down in the Training Grounds, that’ll cheer you up, huh?”

“Fergus,” Eleanor sighed, both resigned and fond—honestly, did Fergus ever think beyond training and fighting? Sometimes Eleanor wondered.

“Come on Kenna, don’t you want to wave to Bran? You don’t want him to remember you crying, now do you?”

Kenna sniffed as she raised her head, little soft face red and wet from tears and snot. Bryce had thankfully thought to bring a handkerchief and reached out to clean their youngest’s face—to her protests of course.

“Come on, Pup,” he told her softly, “it’s not forever, now is it? No need for all these tears now.”

Kenna huffed at her father as she turned so she could see Bran standing at the rails and waved at him, looking very put-out all the while making Eleanor smile slightly as she raised her own hand towards her son. Bran waved back at them as the sailors began to shout as they got ready to sail—sail away from Highever, away from the only home that Bran ever knew, away from his parents and siblings—and kept waving until the ship began to leave the pier and out into the harbour itself.

“I’ll read out every letter he sends,” Caitlyn promised her sister. “And if he doesn’t do it regularly, then I will send Fergus to kick his ass until he does.”

“Caitlyn!” Eleanor let out a gasp as she stared at her eldest daughter while Kenna seemed appeased by her sister’s words. “Honestly, this is your fault Bryce.”

“I didn’t say anything!” he protested, a hint of merriment dancing in his blue eyes.

“Just give the word, Cait,” Fergus grinned, and Eleanor gave up.

“You’re all impossible,” she declared as she turned on her heel and began to march back to the castle, Kenna giggling at the look on her face as she did.“You will grow up to be mannered even if it kills me.”

“No,” Kenna told her happily, a big grin showing off her all her baby teeth and dual-coloured eyes dancing—the grief of Bran leaving having fled her mind for the moment. “Won’t, won’t.”

“We shall see, we shall see,” Eleanor told her making Kenna just laugh—Eleanor had a feeling she was fighting a losing battle, but her father had no raised her to shirk from a challenge even if the challenge was making sure that her youngest daughter had some manners in her.

* * *

 

~ The Sea Maiden, Storm Coast, 23rd Bloomingtide 9:16 ~

Bran’s first thought of the Storm Coast? It was wet. Storm Coast had the type of constant rain that seeped into your clothes and even into your smalls and gave you the chills. It was a miserable rainy place, and Bran missed home so much that he almost didn’t want to get off the ship.

His grandfather was waiting on the pier, seemingly unbothered by the rain as he watched the sailors begin the process of docking the ship with sharp stormy green eyes and his large arms crossed across his equally large barrel like chest.

Huddled beside him with a coat held miserably over their head was a young person—he couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, but he could tell they felt as miserable about the rain as he did.

“Alright boy,” the Captain stood beside him, “off you get, we’ll unload your stuff so don’t worry about that.” Bran nodded and hunched his shoulders under his coat as he made his way to the gangplank that was being lowered.

“Bran!” Grandfather’s bearded face split into a massive grin and he almost plucked Bran up before he was fully off the gangplank and into a massive hug that made him choke. “Have a good trip?”

“Yes,” Bran coughed when his grandfather put him down making the young boy—he could tell now they were basically face to face, and realised he was about his age, maybe a year younger—gave him a sympathetic look that spoke of his understanding of the crushing affectionate hug that Grandfather seemed to excel at giving out.

“Right, Brannon,” one massive hand slapped down on his shoulder, “this is Arthyen Trevelyan, your cousin,” the other massive hand slapped down heavily on Arthyen’s shoulder making his cousin stumbled. “Your Aunt Emogen sent him over to learn as well.”

Aunt Emogen, Bran didn’t really know her. She was his mother’s only sister, the youngest of his grandfather’s children, and she had only visited Highever twice in his memory as she lived in the Free Marches—Ostwick if he remembered correctly—and thus couldn’t visit as often as his uncles and other cousins could—they only had to borrow a ship (often their own ships) and sail for three days till they reached Highever instead of the almost two weeks between Ostwick and Highever.

“Nice to meet you,” Bran told him, meeting stormy green eyes—his mother’s eyes, Fergus’ eyes, the eyes of the Storm Coast, not the blue he saw in the mirror, not his father’s eyes, not Cait’s eyes, not the Cousland blue—staring out an unfamiliar deeply tanned face.

“Nice to meet you too,” Arthyen told him, a grimace twist on his lips as he tried to keep part of his coat over his dark hair. “Call me Art though, Arthek is a mouthful.”

“Only if you call me Bran,” he quirked a grin at his cousin making him nod and a ghost of grin twist at his lips before a fat raindrop plopped onto his nose.“Can we get out of the rain now, Grandfather?”

“Hah,” Fearchar Mac Eanraig grinned at them, a grin of fierce amusement at their plight, “you’ll get used to the rain soon enough.”

Both boys gave looks that said they weren’t looking forward to that making their grandfather laugh.

“You’ll feel better once there is some food in your bellies,” he told his grandsons with a grin as he turned towards the path that would take him to the Stormer’s Keep.

“Come on, we don’t have all day.” The two cousins shared a look before stumbling after their grandfather.

* * *

 

_Kenna’s heart was beating fast as they fought their way closer to the kitchen, closer to the pantry, closer to where Father should be._

_What if they were too late? Gilmore had said he was in a bad way, why didn’t Father believe her?_

_The glow-lamps were dim, the moonlight was struggling through the window, the kitchen laid almost untouched—no victims for the soldiers to butch—and Kenna felt some small relief that Nan hadn’t been stubborn and stayed behind instead of going to safety of Lowever._

_The door to the pantry was open just a jar, a glow spilling from the gap, and Mother didn’t hesitate as she crossed the kitchen in several long strides and pushed open the door._

_“Bryce!” she called for her husband and Kenna moved forward, ignoring Caitlyn’s out-stretched hand and Bran’s attempt to block the door._

_“There you all are,” her Father’s voice was weak and wavering, and Kenna was hit by the understanding why her elder siblings tried to keep her back, to let them go first._

_A dark-haired man was crouched over her father, glowing hands attempting to heal him as her father—HER FATHER—laid in his own blood and her mother dropped to her knees, blood sticking to them, and reached out with trembling hands. “I feared the worse,” her father coughed as his wife reached out to soothe him. “Don’t talk, my love,” her mother told him as she gathered him close. “Can he move?”_

_The mage grimaced as he leaned back on his heels, blue eyes stared grimly into the Teyrna’s eyes as he softly shook his head._

_“Father….” She almost choked out, stumbling forward and slapping away Bran’s hands as he attempted to stop her._

_“Kenna,” he reached out with one blood stained hand and she could see her father’s guts—they had gutted him, had made sure he couldn’t be saved, had made sure he died in prolonged agony—and Kenna felt a scream build in her throat—_

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:18 Dragon ~

Kenna bolted up in her bed, screaming as hot tears ran down her face.

She screamed and screamed as the glow-lamps flared to life, screamed as Caitlyn scrambled out of her bed, screamed as the door slammed open and her father stood there, screamed as he reached for her and all she could see was blood— _his blood, he was dying, he was dying, they killed him, they had gutted him like an animal, they had left him to die in a pool of his own blood_ —until Caitlyn grabbed her, fingers tangling in her sweaty red locks and pushing her face into Caitlyn’s shoulder, cutting off her sight.

Kenna choked and coughed before she sobbed brokenly into her sister’s shoulder, hands fisting the back of Caitlyn’s nightdress.

She knew without looking that Fergus would be stumbling through the door in any moment, he would reached out and pull her from Caitlyn’s grasp, holding her close and swaying like she was still a baby while her parents—he was dying, he was dying, they killed him—would back away, knowing from experience that they made things worse. All the while, Kenna would be sobbing as images of her nightmare— _the future_ , something in her hissed—continued to assault her. 

* * *

 

 

Caitlyn leaned against the closed door of her parents’ room; ear pressed near the keyhole as she listened.

“It’s been over a month,” her mother pointed out, a waver in her voice. “It’s getting worse.”

“Nightmares are something all children go through,” her father tried to reason.

“Those aren’t nightmares!” her mother hissed, “those are terrors! Nightmares don’t cause children to scream like they are being killed, nightmares don’t make children flinch away from their own parents! These are not simply nightmares Bryce!”

“Then what do you expect me to do? What can we do?” her father was frustrated; she could almost picture him rubbing his hands over his bearded face.

“We need to write to the Circle, get a mage or a Templar or both,” Mother told him quietly making Caitlyn strain to hear. “Perhaps they can help.”

“You think Kenna’s a mage?” Father’s voice was thick with disbelief. “Because of some dreams?”

“You can’t make light of her dreams, Bryce, and you know it,” Mother snapped at him. “Yes, maybe they are a sign she’s a mage, or she’s being tortured by a demon for some sick reason, I don’t know. All I know is every night I wake up to the sound of my daughter screaming, screaming like she’s being killed, and I can’t take anymore. I need to know what’s wrong, I need to know that we can fix this, that we can help her.”

“And what if she is a mage? Are you ready to let them take her away?” Father asked sharply.

“If they can help her, if it is best for her,” Mother seemed to hold in a sob, “I will.”

“Eleanor….” Father sighed, “I’ll write first thing in the morning, Maker help us.”

Caitlyn didn’t need to hear any more, the ten-year old carefully got to her feet and padded softly back to the nursey she still shared with Kenna—she’d be moving out as soon as she got her moon’s blood and the nursey would be transformed into Kenna’s own room instead of the shared nursey—and only opened the door wide enough for her to slip in—the door creaked if it was opened to far.

“Well?” Fergus asked her impatiently as he turned to her; Kenna was perched on his hip, face buried into his shoulder, breath hitching in slightly troubled sleep.

“They think she’s a mage,” Caitlyn told her elder brother softly as she crossed over to him, placing a hand on Kenna’s back. “Father’s going to send a letter to the Circle in the morning.”

“Kenna? A mage?” Fergus scoffed as he swayed slightly when Kenna murmured in her sleep. “Pull the other one.”

Caitlyn glared up at him; he was just fifteen and already almost matching Father’s height, glaring had become a chore to her neck, but she still went through with it.

“That’s what Mother thinks, she thinks the dreams are a sign,” Caitlyn told him making Fergus shake his head slightly.

“If Kenna was a mage, we’d know about it,” he insisted, “this dreams don’t mean that.”

“That what do you think they mean? You know what she sees as well as I do even, what do you think they mean?” she demanded making Fergus clench his jaw.

Only they knew what Kenna kept dreaming about, she couldn’t bring herself to tell their parents and they didn’t know how to tell them. How does one tell their parents that every night their little sister dreams of their father’s death?

“Aldous told me about Rivain,” he began slowly, “they have these women they call seers, perhaps Kenna is like them.”

“If she is….” Caitlyn trailed off as they shared grim looks. “We should wait to see what the mage or Templar says.”

“Cait,” Fergus reached out with his free hand and grabs her arm, “Cait, if what she’s seeing is true—”

“We don’t know that,” she hissed at him.

“—then you and Bran have to take care of her,” he finished like she had said nothing, “we know I’m not there for whatever reason, so you need to take care of her.”

“It’s not going to happen, Father going to be fine,” she insisted as tears gathered in her blue eyes, “no one is going to attack us!”

Fergus just watched her steadily and a bit sadly as if he already decided that Kenna was seeing the future, like that made more sense then having some demon messing around with her dreams.

Caitlyn hated him slightly in that moment, she also hated herself as she realised that she believed like he did.

“I’ll keep her safe,” Caitlyn promised as she stroked Kenna’s back, “I promise.”

Fergus nodded, a hint of relief in his stormy green eyes.

“We should get her back into bed,” he told her, “don’t want her to wake up in pain after all.”

Caitlyn stood back as Fergus carefully set Kenna back into bed, covering her up and pressing a kiss to her still slightly sweaty forehead without a grimace—he would make a good father one day, Caitlyn dimly realised.

Fergus straightened and gave her a soft look, he didn’t move to hug her in a vain attempt to reassure her—they both know that would just make her cry and Caitlyn hated crying—before he left and shut the door behind him

 


	4. Chapter 4

‘ _Protect what matters with everything you have, or you’ll have nothing and deserve it_.’ –Guard-Captain Aveline Hendyr nee Vallen nee Du Lac, Guard-Captain of Kirkwall, friend of the Champion of Kirkwall.

* * *

 

~ Training Grounds, Cousland Caste, Highever, 19th Cloudreach 9:18 Dragon ~

Ser Kenneth Nolan watched with raised eyebrows as the youngest Cousland came marching onto the training grounds.

She didn’t do more than glance towards where her brother was going through his paces but kept marching until she was in front of him.

“Can I help you, my lady?” he asked, noting with amusement how she set her jaw stubbornly—something Nan constantly bemoaned about, ‘that look brews trouble’ she had told anyone that listened and many that didn’t want to.

“Teach me to fight,” she declared, her voice firm and several paces away Fergus tripped over his own feet as he heard his little sister’s words, face-planting the dirt and making his opponent shake his head in mild amusement as he stopped his forward strike.

Kenneth had to hold in the urge to shake his head at his squire but kept his gaze on the youngest Cousland. Her eyes bore up at him—the stormy green seemingly larger than the Cousland blue, giving her eyes a more obvious mismatched look then others he had seen with dual coloured eyes—and burned with resolve that he had seen dozens of times in the eyes of her father, her mother, her brothers and even her sister. She was four, two years younger than her siblings had been when the Teyrn had gave them over to him to train, and she was small for her age—smaller than the Lady Caitlyn had been at her age.

He should say no, he knew.

He should tell her to be patient, that in two years he’d be training her anyway. The Teyrna wouldn’t be pleased if she heard he was training her precious youngest two years early; Nan would screech when she found out where her youngest charge had wandered off to now. It would cause trouble, he knew. It would bring Nan to the training grounds and cause her to loom as a disapproving statue as he beat the youngest Cousland into the ground. He should say no.

“Fine,” he grunted as he jerked his head to the equipment shed, “find a wooden sword that’s not too heavy for you.”

“Two swords,” she informed him, her jaw still set stubbornly, “I’m going to fight with two swords.”

“If you say so, my Lady,” he told her dryly. “But you will start with one until I say otherwise, or I’ll send you back to Nan without hesitation. If you want me to train you, you will do as I say, or I won’t train you. Here my word is law, and you will obey my laws, do we understand each other, my Lady?”

She stared up at him silently for a few moments as her brother finally stumbled back to his feet—he would need to work of Fergus’ reaction time, he noted mentally, especially when it came to surprises, especially when those surprises came in the shape of his sister—before giving a short nod—the barest jerk of her head—and headed towards the shed with all the burning resolve and pig-headed stubbornness that marked her as a Cousland and her parents’ daughter.

“Get your head back into your spar!” he barked towards his squire, glaring when the boy opened his mouth to argue. “Now!”

Fergus glanced towards where his sister had disappeared into the shed before giving a jerking nod as he turned to his amused opponent, raising the great sword that he had taken to using.

Kenneth should have said no, but he knew that look Kenna Cousland wore on her face. Her father had worn that look, her mother had worn that look. Burning resolve, hard-headed stubbornness, a glimmer of defiance if they were denied. If he had said no, Kenneth had no doubt that the youngest Cousland would attempt to train herself.

Better he taught her early instead of letting her hurt herself in the long run with shoddy self-training, he would argue when the Teyrna and Nan bore down upon him like avenging demons when word reached them.

Kenna came marching out, her head held proudly, her jaw set stubbornly, and a wooden sword held in her right hand.

He examined her from head to toe, she’d need her own practice armour as he doubted they had any around her size. Her first lessons would hurt, he acknowledged to himself, no leather armour to protect her thin skin, she’d be blooming bruises until the Armourer could cobble together something for her—another thing he would be railed about, no doubt. Perhaps the pain would deter her, perhaps she’d chose to primarily train as an archer like her sister, perhaps she’ll cry and run away, he didn’t know. She was small, always had been he knew, and he doubted she would match the height of her mother never mind the height of her father. He expected she’d always be small, but perhaps fast? He’d train her with speed in mind instead of strength like he trained Fergus. He’d train her to harry her enemy with fast strikes, to keep moving and do her best not to end up in a test of strength—a test she would lose, a test that could mean her death—and he should look into getting a female trainer to teach her to use her flexibility—flexibility that men often didn’t have—which would only help her in the long run. “First lesson,” he told her as she stood before him.

“Grip. Your grip is shit, you’re holding a sword not a damn doll. I could slap it out of your hand and you’d not be able to do a thing—which means you’d be dead.” He reached out as he talked, adjusting her grip turning the loose hold in a sturdy ‘handshake’ grip, pinching her index and middle finger till she loosened them while squeezing her other two fingers to tighten said grip.

“You lose your sword, you’re dead. You drop your sword, you’re dead. Your grip slip, guess what?”

“I’m dead?” she offered as she flexed her hand, getting used to the grip he placed her in. “

Good,” he tousled her red hair firmly making her glare as strands pull themselves out of her braid from his rough movement. “Do something about your hair, if it gets into your eyes during a fight—”

“I’ll be dead,” she interrupted him making him grin at her.

“You learn quickly,” he told her, his teeth barred in a challenge. “Let’s hope you continue too.” He lashed out with the wooden sword he kept at his side, the wooden flat of the blade smacked on the youngest Cousland’s knuckles, hand spasming open as she gasped in pain and shock, her wooden sword landing on the dirt with a soft plop.

“You’re dead,” he told her simply as she held her abused hand close and glared up at him with watery eyes. “Again.” Her jaw clenched, he almost thought she was going to scream at him, to cry out, but she reached down and picked up her sword. He lashed out again, her knuckle turning an angry pink, and the sword dropped again.

“That’s not the grip I put you in,” he told her almost idly. “Again.” She glared, a tear sliding down her plump cheek, but again she reached for her sword, her hand moving awkwardly into the grip he showed her—not yet used to the movement. He lashed out and she took a step back, his blade clashing against hers. It jerked in her grip, but she firmed her grip, glaring up at him with watery eyes filled with resolve, with defiance, with stubbornness.

“Good,” he laughed at her, watching her bristle. “Again.”

* * *

 

~ Library, Cousland Castle, Highever, 19th Cloudreach 9:18 Dragon ~

Caitlyn huffed a stray piece of hair out of her eyes as she placed her selection of books of desk, the librarian watched her with a frown as she did—he always acted like they were about to damage his books, something that Caitlyn blamed Fergus for as the librarian always loomed suspiciously when he entered the library.

The collection of her grandfather was varied and large, but there was frustrating little about mages, the Fade and demons. Caitlyn had been looking for answers since Kenna woke up screaming the morning after her birthday, and the library had failed her.

She was inclined to agree with Fergus’ disbelief when it came to the theory that Kenna was a mage. Frustratingly he was right; if Kenna had been a mage, they would have known about it as Kenna was fierce in her emotions. Surely she would have shown some other sign apart from frightening dreams? But her mother had been right, Caitlyn thought grimly, they couldn’t go on like this, Kenna couldn’t go on like this.

There had to be some way to stop the dreams—visions of the future if Fergus was believed—or at least some way to dull them?

She chewed on her bottom lip as she thought. Perhaps she had been looking in the wrong places, perhaps she should stop trying to solve Kenna’s problems with magic—there should be a mage and Templar coming soon enough, they can try magic—perhaps she should investigate some sort of medicine? A sleeping-aid of some sort? Or something to dull the dreams? It was worth a shot, she decided as she stood and marched towards the stacks, slender fingers tracing the spines as she looked for botany books, anatomy books and other such books needed for her research—hopefully the library wouldn’t fail her again.

She ignored the way the librarian sniffed pointedly as he put away her discarded books away, glowering as she began stacking books in her arms. She would figure this out, she told herself as she placed her tower on the desk with a grunt, she would help her little sister.

* * *

 

~ Training Grounds, Cousland Castle, Highever, 19th Cloudreach 9:18 Dragon~

She shouldn’t be surprised, Nan thought to herself, and yet she still found herself a bit unpleasantly surprised as she found out where her charge had wandered off this time.

How many times had Kenna gone toddling off after her brothers when she figured out how to get on her pudgy feet and not fall on her bottom? How many times had Nan trailed behind her until she had trucker herself out? Kenna had always followed her brothers more often than her sister as her brothers did interesting things like spar while Caitlyn studied dutifully under Aldous.

Nan should have expected this, but somehow she hadn’t.

Nan scowled as she watched Ser Kenneth go from hitting her charge’s knuckles to batting at her ankles, nudging her into stances, and Nan had half mind to find out if he enjoyed being hit by a wooden sword. But she didn’t, she planted herself by the fence and watched.

If Kenna had been crying—properly crying and not the odd tear—then nothing would have stopped Nan from marching out there and giving the ‘good’ knight a piece of her mind. But Kenna wasn’t, she was sniffing and getting her dress all dirty, but she didn’t stop, didn’t complain, and carried on with that damn title of her chin.

Four years, Nan had watched over and cared for Kenna for four years, and she knew that expression well. Nothing seemed to change the little Cousland’s mind once she got that stubborn expression on her face, when her jaw titled just so and firmed with her resolve.

Nan clenched her jaw.

Kenna was four-years old, still so much smaller than her siblings had been, and two years too young to learn this. But Nan knew, unless she wanted to lock the young Cousland up there was nothing that would change her mind. Kenna had come here and asked Ser Kenneth to train her, and the damned man agreed. Nan could only hope that the reality of the training would splutter her burning resolve, but she already suspected it would be a fool’s hope.

She supposed she should swap Kenna’s dresses to trousers and tunics now and arrange for a bath for tonight—her charge wasn’t going to dinner looking like she had been wrestling with the dogs in the dirt!

Nan nodded firmly to herself, gave one last blistering glower towards Ser Kenneth, and marched off to find one of those elves.

* * *

 

~ Training Grounds, Cousland Caste, Highever, 19th Cloudreach 9:18 ~

Ser Morgan Ford stared down at the teary child her Commander had dropped in front of her for a long moment.

“What am I meant to do?” she asked almost wearily as she took in the sore knuckles, the watery eyes and the red face of the youngest Cousland.

“Teach her female things,” Ser Kenneth told her making Morgan sneer at him—something that always made the daft man grin back at her.

“Female things?” she asked with a hint of tone as the child carefully rubbed at her eyes.

“Female warrior things,” he corrected himself with a shrug before leaving, leaving her with the child staring up at her.

Morgan sighed, there was a reason she joined the army instead of looking for a husband like her mother would have preferred and it was standing right in front of her.

“Right, I suppose we should do something about your hands first,” she sighed again as she began herding her Teyrn’s youngest to the nearby bench, silently thankful that she always brought bandages and such to the training ground just in case something happened—though she had never thought she’d be using them on the youngest Cousland.

“Sit and hold out your hands,” she ordered, and the child complied, sniffing as she did. “I was under the impression that the Teyrn only allowed martial training once his children turned six.” Morgan took in the welts and the redness and reached into her discarded bag—she had some elfroot paste that would ease some of the pain and aid in her healing.

“I need to learn to fight,” the girl’s voice wobbled a bit with supressed tears.

Morgan hummed, unconvinced, as she carefully applied the paste, ignoring the wincing the child gave off. She was slightly impressed that the girl hadn’t burst into wailing and gone running off.

“I do,” Lady Kenna Cousland scowled at her, “I need to learn.”

“So, you say,” Morgan was still unconvinced, why would the sheltered and beloved youngest daughter need to know how to fight?

“You don’t believe me,” the child accused as Morgan reached for the bandages.

Morgan glanced up with dark eyes. “Does it really matter what I believe?” she asked curiously as she carefully wrapped the tiny abused hands. “There will always be people that will disbelieve you, it’s a fact of life—something you should accept now.”

The young Lady scowled as she thought as Morgan tied off the bandages of one hand and reached for the other. “

You wish to duel-wield one day?” Morgan asked making the child nod.

“How’d you know?” she asked curiously, still a hint of a wince passing over her chubby features when Morgan tied off the other hand.

“Both of your hands are injured,” Morgan shrugged lightly as she put away her supplies. “Which means that the Commander was getting you used to holding a sword in both hands.”

“How does hitting my hands help me?” she asked with a hint of a childish whine to her voice—a whine she was entitled to, Morgan supposed, considering she was a child. “

To stop you dropping your only means of protection because of a hit to your hands,” Morgan replied as she stood. “You’ll learn to ignore the pain, to tighten instead of loosening your hold.”

There was a disgruntled look on the young Lady’s face as if she saw the logic, but still didn’t like it.

“What are you going to teach me?” Lady Kenna asked after a moment, peering up at her with her mismatched gaze.

Morgan sighed as she examined the child in front of her; taking in her bandaged hands, the messy and loose braid, the dirt covering her nice—and most likely expensive—dress, the tear tracks clear on her dusty cheeks and the stubborn tilt of her chin.

“Stretches,” she decided after a moment. “You’ll never have the strength of a man, nor does it look likely you’ll reach a great height. But you can be faster, you can strike in places they won’t expect, and you can learn to be light on your feet.”

The Lady Kenna scowled at the comment on her height—no doubt it will become a sore point as she grows up and doesn’t match the height of her siblings.

“Stand up,” Morgan ordered as she stood back. “You will do these series of stretches every morning before breakfast, before each training session and before you go to bed every night—I will be talking to both the Commander and Nan to make sure you do.”

Morgan went through a series of simple stretches, slow so that the child could see each way Morgan twisted, the way her muscles flexed, and then when she had finished she gestured for the child to go through them. Morgan correcting each wrong move, nudging a foot further or closer, helping her with a twist, and so on before she stepped back and made the girl go through them again to prove she knew them.

“Good,” Morgan gave a short nod of approval. “Now, I will teach you how to braid your hair out of your face.”

Lady Kenna looked up, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, and Morgan gestured to her own head of dark hair.

“See how I have braided it around my head?” she asked making the young Lady nod slightly with a thoughtful frown. “This way it will keep out of my eyes, and not hinder me when I wear a helmet. Your braid is fine for play, but not for training or combat as you now know.”

Morgan deftly undid her so-called braided crown as she sat before her youngest Lady.

“Watch how I do it,” she ordered, and the young Lady inched forward as Morgan braided slowly, keeping a tight grip so her hair didn’t slack despite the slow speed she was going. “It will take you a while to be able to do it, I will do it for you before your training tomorrow, but I will not do that forever. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ser,” the child nodded.“What’s your name?”

“The Commander didn’t tell you?” Morgan blinked in slight surprise making the child shake her head slightly, her odd gaze focused on Morgan’s fingers. “Call me Morgan, saves time.”

The Lady nodded with a hum of acknowledgement.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” a voice suddenly spoke up making the child flinch while Morgan looked up—she had heard the footsteps on the hard-packed ground. “No need to trouble yourself.”

“Nan!” the Lady almost squealed in shock making the elderly woman give her an unimpressed look.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice your absence or that I wouldn’t find you? I’m neither blind nor stupid, young lady, and you’ll do well to remember that,” Nan stared down her charge with a hint of a frown. “You go behind my back again, and you will regret it, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Nan,” the Lady bowed her head, “I’m sorry, Nan.”

“Sorry, you got caught more like,” Nan huffed without real heat. “Come now, I’ve got my work cut out to make you presentable to your parents.”

“Goodbye Ser Morgan,” the Lady said as she moved towards her nanny. “Goodbye my Lady, Nan,” Morgan inclined her head making Nan grunt as she placed her hand on the shoulder of her charge as she led her away.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 29th Cloudreach 9:18 ~

Kenna frowned up at the Templar, shivering slightly when he gestured, and she felt something pass over her.

“Any pain?” he asked as he stared down at her making her shake her head. “Does anything feel off?”

“No,” Kenna shook her head again.

“What does that mean?” Eleanor asked as she inched towards her youngest.

“She’s not a mage,” the Templar declared making Eleanor almost slump in relief as she reached for Kenna.

Kenna reached back and Eleanor picked her up, holding her close as arms and legs wrapped around her.

“Then her dreams?” Bryce asked as he placed a hand on his wife’s back.

“Doesn’t mean she’s a mage,” the Templar shrugged, his plate gridding against each other. “The mage will make sure she’s not being targeted, but she has no magic.”

Eleanor let out a shuddering sigh of relief as she gave in and buried her face into Kenna’s red locks, breathing in minty smell of the hair oils that Kenna preferred over any of the flowery oils that Caitlyn used.

“I could have told you that,” Kenna grumbled as she hugged her mother back making Eleanor laugh slightly. A burden had left her shoulders, her daughter wasn’t a mage and would be staying with her. Though her heart still felt heavy, they still didn’t know what caused Kenna’s dreams after all.

* * *

 

_“Here, look at this,” Kenna looks up from the fire when she heard his voice, seeing him standing close to Caitlyn. “Do you know what this is?”_

_Kenna leaned to see what he was holding; it was a rose—the rose that he had sheepishly asked if there was a way to keep in pristine condition that L— had spelled for him with a hint of a smirk curling her lips._

_“Is this your new weapon of choice?” Caitlyn asked, a smile curling at her scarred lips as she looked up at him with bright blue eyes._

_“Yes, that’s right,” he laughed before he began pretending to wield the rose as weapon. “Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent!”_

_Caitlyn laughed—the first real laugh since Highever—and Kenna smiled to herself as she turned back to the fire._

_“Maker no,” Bran sounded appalled as he watched from beside her. “She’s not…is she?”_

_“Is it so bad?” Kenna asked her brother, nudging him slightly. “He makes her happy.”_

_Bran sighed deeply, glancing towards the dark-haired mage as he created wards around their camp with the help of golden-eyed M—_

_“I don’t want her to get hurt,” Bran told her._

_“He won’t hurt her,” she reassured him._

_“Or, you know, it could just be a rose,” he shrugged almost sheepishly at Caitlyn. “I know that’s pretty dull in comparison.”_

_“Maybe,” Caitlyn agreed still smiling. “You’ve been thumbing that rose for a while now.”_

_“You noticed?” he asked making her nod. “I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness? I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t—the darkspawn would come, and their taint would just destroy it. So, I’ve had it ever since.”_

_“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Caitlyn’s smile softened._

_“I thought I might…give it to you,” he said nervously, awkwardly. “In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you.”_

_Caitlyn blinked as one of her hand drifted towards her scarred face as she stared at the beautiful rose he held out towards her. He carefully captured her hand before it could touch the scars and pressed the rose into it instead._

_“I though maybe I should say something; tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this…darkness,” he told her softly making Caitlyn blink rapidly as tears filled her eyes. “Oh, no, don’t cry. I said this all wrong, didn’t I?”_

_“No,” Caitlyn denied as she held his hand tightly with her free hand. “No, what you said…it was wonderful…. I’m just being silly.”_

_“You’re never silly,” he told her firmly as he made sure she was holding the rose before gently brushing away the tears that fell. “What’s wrong?”_

_“I never thought anyone would ever say something like that to me, not now,” she shook her head. “It’s stupid, and vain, and all the things you’re not. You’re kind, and wonderful, and you see me as beautiful despite everything, and you can make me smile and laugh—for a time I didn’t think I would ever do such things again—and I need you to know, I feel the same way about you, even though I’m ruining it all by crying like a little girl.”_

_“You’ve ruined nothing,” he told her with a soft smile, “You could never ruin anything_.”

_She dropped his hand and reached for him, he met her half-way and their lips met._

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 10th Bloomingtide, Dragon 9:18 ~

For the first time in over a month, Kenna woke up with a smile as she turned over and snuggled into Caitlyn as her sister had decided to share her bed in hopes that would help against her dreams.

“He’s a good man,” she whispered to her sleeping sister. “I’m glad you’ll be happy.”

Caitlyn hummed slightly in her sleep as one arm pulled her close, Kenna smiled again as she snuggled closer and let herself drift back to sleep.


	5. Chapter Five

_‘Change is coming to the world. Many fear change and will fight it with every fibre of their beings. Bu sometimes, change is what they need most. Sometimes, change is what sets them fre_ e.’ –Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds, Daughter of Flemeth, Companion of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, Arcane Advisor to the Imperial Court of Orlais, Liaison to the Inquisition.

* * *

 

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Drakonis 9:21 ~

Seven-year old Kenna rolled her shoulders as she walked through the halls towards her bedroom, grimacing slightly at the way her undertunic stuck to her sweaty back under her leather breastplate and how her arms ached from all the swings and strikes Ser Kenneth had ordered her to do—since Fergus had been knighted, Kenna had the dubious pleasure of having more of Ser Kenneth’s attention after he had kicked his former squire into the City Guard instead of allowing him into the Army like Fergus had half-expected.

(She didn’t know who was more dismayed, Fergus or the unlucky guard that ended up as the then sixteen-year olds partner—Kenna had almost laughed herself sick when Fergus had come stomping back covered in rubbish when a particular cunning and fast thief had taunted him into one of the rubbish filled alleys and had tripped him into one of the stinking heaps, Caitlyn had tried to look sympathetic but she couldn’t keep a straight face or stop her nose from wrinkling in disgust)

Her steps slowed as she noticed the young elven girl waiting outside of her parents’ study. Kenna stumbled with a pained gasp when the girl—maybe a year older than her? —looked up with surprised pale green eyes as her head seemed to explode with images and knowledge.

Her fingers—calloused from her combat training—tried to dig under her tight braided-crown, tried to claw at her head as images flashed in her mind’s eyes almost too fast.

Warm slim fingers curled around her wrist and held her shoulder, and she looked up with bleary eyes as concerned pale green stared into her dual-coloured ones as the images stalled.

In her mind’s eyes two possibilities hung like spectres, flanking their real-life and current-self; on Kenna’s left stood the girl grown up, slightly gaunt with her ash-blonde hair pulled into a bun, and wearing mage robes—that version flickered, one with dead staring pale green eyes with claw marks slashed across her throat and blood staining her robes only to replaced with blank pale green eyes and the bright sun-burst brand in the middle of her forehead standing out compared to her muted robes—while on Kenna’s right stood another version of the same woman, not gaunt but with a healthy weight to her delicate figure, ash-blonde hair pulled into a loose braid and pale-green eyes keen, a smirk curling at her rosy lips as an egg-shaped focus crystal hung at the hallow of her throat—hidden in plain sight—and she wore clothes of midnight blue with golden embroidered laurels and tiny song birds—her personal colours and heraldry, Kenna dimly realised.

“Are you alright?” the elven girl asked.

“Just got dizzy,” Kenna told her with her throat dry and her tongue feeling thick in her mouth as sudden realisation and confirmation made her feel as dizzy as she claimed.

Her dreams that she half-thought to be visions of the future—half-hoped because that meant she wasn’t mad, that she wasn’t afraid for nothing, that she wasn’t just dreaming terrible things for no reason—were really visions of the future. Just not one set future, she realised as the spectres waited and the girl kept a steadying hand on her shoulder, but of possible futures.

“What’s your name?” Kenna half-asked and half-demanded as she realised she was faced with a choice, a choice that affected this girl’s fate.

“L-Lileas Surana, milady,” the girl stuttered slightly in her slight shock—none of the confidence of her right spectre self.

“Call me Kenna,” she told Lileas as she grabbed one of her hands and began to drag the startled girl to the study. “I know we’re going to be great friends.”

There really wasn’t much of a choice, she thought to herself as the left spectre shuddered and disappeared and the right spectre’s smirk softened into an affectionate smile before disappearing from her mind’s eyes as she almost slammed the door open.

Her father looked up with annoyed fondness that turned into resigned fondness as he saw her and the girl she was dragging behind her. Caitlyn smiled at her, amused and loving at the same time, as she sat beside her father at his large desk. Before his desk was another elven girl—around Caitlyn’s age—with Lileas’ pale green eyes and almost strawberry blonde hair that stared in shock at her entrance.

“Lileas?” she spluttered in shock, but Kenna ignored her as she set her eyes on her father.

“Lileas’ going to be my lady-in-waiting from now on,” she informed him and the room at large with her jaw set making her father sigh, Lileas’ sister to splutter again and Caitlyn to laugh brightly.

“Then I suppose I should make you my own lady-in-waiting, Rosina,” Caitlyn informed the elder elven girl.

“Do I have a say in this at all?” their father asked almost wearily making Caitlyn smile prettily at him and Kenna to set her jaw more firmly making him sigh. “You two are definitely your mother’s daughters.”

“Thank you, Father,” Caitlyn told him almost primly as she stood. “Come, I suppose we should talk to Nan to get you settled.”

* * *

 

 

Nan, Lileas learnt, was an old woman with wrinkles that seemed to frown for her as she stared down at the two Cousland ladies—Lady Kenna hadn’t let go of Lileas’ wrist once—and the elven girls that they brought before her.

“And whose idea was this?” Nan asked archly, arms crossed over her chest as her gaze seemed to linger of the red-headed noble that stared up at her with a set jaw. “Of course, it was you, why did I even think otherwise?”

“Lileas going to be my friend,” Lady Kenna announced firmly and proudly, like it was a forgone conclusion, that it was something to be proud of—a noble girl claiming to be the friend of knife-eared servant.

Rosina gave a small sound behind her, and Lileas glanced back to see anxiety clear in her big sister’s pale green eyes, and Lileas looked back to Nan with wide eyes.

“I see,” Nan said simply before pinning Lileas in place with her keen dark eyes. “I hope you know—Lileas, was it? –that you’ll be spending most of your time trying to keep this one out of trouble,” she jerked her head towards Lady Kenna, “she’s twice as stubborn as an old mule once she gets an idea in her head.”

Lady Kenna scowled, but didn’t deny it, didn’t say anything against the old woman’s words.

“And you? What’s your name?” Nan asked, turning her gaze to Rosina.

“Rosina, ma’am, Rosina Surana,” Rosina attempted to give a clumsy curtsey only to stop herself when a scowl creased at Nan’s face.

“Don’t bother, I’m a nanny, not some noble,” Nan informed her almost curtly. “You’ll have an easier time then your sister. Lady Caitlyn keeps to a proper schedule and doesn’t attempt any foolhardiness.”

“I have a schedule too,” Kenna protested making Nan level her with an unimpressed look and the Lady Caitlyn to place a hand on her shoulder with a fond smile curling her lips.

“That you only keep to as long as some foolhardy idea doesn’t pop into your head,” Nan told her making Kenna scowl slightly, but didn’t argue against the old woman’s words. “Now then,” Nan eyed both the elven girls closely, “I will be getting in the seamstress tomorrow, you’ll be fitted with clothes fitting your new position and in the colours of your new ladies. Tell me, can you read?”

“A little, I’ve done my best to teach Lileas,” Rosina admitted looking slightly ashamed, but Nan just nodded.

“Then I will talk to Aldous about your lessons then,” Nan nodded to herself. “You will be sharing the room with your ladies; do you have your belongings with you, or do you need to return to the Alienage to collect them?” Nan pursed her lips as she glanced back to Lady Kenna. “I suppose you won’t be letting Lileas out of your sight?” Nan asked and Lady Kenna’s grip around Lileas’ wrist tightened slightly, and she raised her chin, setting it in a way that was quickly becoming familiar to Lileas.

“Of course not,” Nan sighed as she looked heavenward. “Then I will go and collar some knights for your protection.”

* * *

 

~ The Alienage, Highever, 18th Drakonis 9:21 ~

Caitlyn had left the safety of the castle several times in the past, but she had never gone further than the docks or the marketplace and had never really given a thought to the Alienage.

Caitlyn wasn’t sure how she should feel when she stepped through the gates the walled off the Alienage from the rest of Highever.

The buildings were built right next to each other and stacked on top of each other—built from worn stone and wood— the cobbles of the road wobbled under foot, and some of the windows of buildings were cracked. Elves in worn and carefully mended clothes slowed as they entered, eyes watching the armoured and armed Knights almost nervously.

Caitlyn glanced towards Rosina, who was already glancing towards her with an almost ashamed look on her thin face, before she glanced at the slight scowl of her younger sister’s grimly set face—Kenna had either known or expected this, probably because of her dreams.

“It’s really not that bad,” Rosina told her softly, “I heard its much worse in other places.”

Caitlyn fixed a smile on her lips as she nodded agreeably to her new lady-in-waiting, but her gaze as she looked around was firm—this would not do.

She felt that especially when they entered the Surana’s previous home and Caitlyn realised that their two rooms—a main room and a shared bedchamber—could fit in her own bed chamber. Plans began to build in her mind as she watched Rosina and Lileas pack their meagre belongings.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Drakonis 9:21 ~

The bunny that Rosina had carefully stitched together from scraps of fabric looked out of place against the plump pillows on her new bed, Lileas decided as she nervously brushed her hands against the soft nightgown that Lady Kenna had given her to wear until the seamstress came and finished her new wardrobe.

Her new bed had soft sheets, a thick dark blue quilt and even soft blankets folded at the bottom, it could also easily roll and fit under Lady Kenna’s bed when Lileas wasn’t using it.

The room was large with a fireplace—generously stocked with wood—and a soft fur rug in front that Lady Kenna informed it was nice to lay on and read a good book. There was a desk with bottles of ink, a container of quill pens, charcoal sticks and a ruler as well as a carefully carved songbird as a paperweight.

Beside the desk was a bookcase half-way filled with books and other carvings of ships, dragons and Mabari hounds. There was a stand for Lady Kenna’s leather armour—practise armour, she told Lileas—and a rack with two sheathed swords. There was an armoire for the Lady’s clothes and a set of drawers had been brought in and placed next to it for Lileas’ own clothes—the thought of having enough clothes to fill it made her feel slightly giddy—and a simple vanity with golden hairbrush, several bottles and for some reason a carefully folded bit of cloth on top.

Framed maps, sketches of dragons and other beasts and a tapestry of knights fighting werewolves hung from the walls.

On the other side of the Lady’s bed was a small table with a discarded attempt at embroider and a potted plant with several red flowers on the long stalk.

On that same side was a wooden divider with carefully painted golden laurels and songbirds that hid the bath and the toilet.

Lady Kenna sat crossed legged on the bed with her damp red hair loosely braided down her back as she watched Lileas take in the room with bright dual-coloured eyes.

“Do you like it?” she asked curiously, her face open and almost kind.

“Yes, milady,” Lileas replied softly making Lady Kenna frown slightly.

“You know I asked you to call me Kenna? I don’t need you to call me a lady or anything, just Kenna,” she told her almost as softly as Lileas had spoken. “We’ve going to be friends, and I want my friend to call me by my name. You don’t have to do it in front of others if it makes you uncomfortable, but when we are alone, can you call me Kenna?”

Lileas almost bit her lip as she thought before she gave a slight nod making Kenna almost beam at her happily.

“We can add things you like to the room,” Kenna told her, “It’s both our room now, isn’t it? It isn’t right that there’s only my things around.”

“Thank you…. Kenna,” Lileas said and Kenna smiled at her.

Lileas didn’t know why Kenna was being so kind to her, why she seemed so convinced they were going to be friends, but Lileas knew better to than to question it.

* * *

 

 

_The door of the hall shuddered as their enemies tried to smash it in, to swarm in like insects to slaughter the slowly tiring defenders. The Knight leaned against the thick wooden doors, forcing it closed with their own weight, ready to sacrifice themselves to allow them to escape._

_Lileas glanced toward Kenna, taking in the set of her jaw and the way she was watching the knights, and heaved a slight sigh as she strode towards the dead mage that the enemy had brought into the castle, into **her** home, and had set upon **her** people. _

_“Lileas?” Rosina asked in confusion as Lileas reached down for the discarded staff._

_Lileas ignored her sister as she tested the feel of the staff in her hands, shuddering at as its own magic reached out eagerly towards hers—she had never truly gotten used to using a staff to augment her strength though she had dutifully trained to fight with a bladed staff that she had placed across her back._

_“Get ready to move,” she called to the men as she raised the staff in her hands, waiting for them to nod before she brought it down, the focusing crystal on the staff and around her neck glowing as she slammed the butt of the staff on the floor with all her might._

_The floor rumbled as large roots burst out, raining cobbles, before they headed towards the doors. The Knight moved out the way and the roots slammed into the door, twisting and turning amongst themselves as they anchored themselves into the doorframe and floor, and forced the doors to remained closed—she had barred the way to their enemies._

_“Maker…” “She’s a mage?” “Andraste’s mercy,” “Did you know?” “How did she hide it?”_

_A warm hand clasped around her elbow, steadying her, and Lileas glanced up at Kenna._

_They shared a smile as they ignored the whispers._

_“Thank you,” Kenna told her and Lileas shrugged slightly, a slight sheen of sweat on her brow—she had placed as much magic into the roots as she could spare._

_“Right, now that’s sorted out,” Bran called out, “Men slaughter the bastards that came through, grab some supplies and take the secret passages down to Lowever. Our people will need you to defend them in the coming days.”_

_“You heard Lord Brannon,” Ser Morgan called out, “Get to it, now,” the Knight paused as she looked around at the Couslands. “What are you going to do?”_

_“We’re going to find our father,” Caitlyn carefully spoke, mindful of gash splitting part of her lips and most of her left cheek—Lileas once again felt some regret that she could never get her head around a healing spell._

_“We won’t be back for some time,” Kenna added as she and Lileas walked over to the others. “There’s a Blight to be fought.”_

_“Then we’ll keep these bastards on their toes till you can return,” Ser Morgan told them with a grim smile as she turned to leave. “Don’t die out there.”_

* * *

 

~ Cousland Caste, Highever, 19th Drakonis 9:21 ~

Kenna turned in her bed and peered over the side to where Lileas slept cuddling her patchwork bunny.

“I’m going to have to find you a teacher,” Kenna decided with a thoughtful frown. “And a focusing crystal.”

She rolled on her back and frowned up at her ceiling.

“This may be harder than I thought,” she admitted into the darkness and to Lileas’ soft snores.

Kenna didn’t regret it though, she wouldn’t regret it, not when she knew what fate could befall Lileas. Yes, it was going to hard, yes it was going to be difficult, but Kenna was stubborn, she wasn’t just going to give in because it was hard or difficult.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! Unfortunately, my laptop broke and needed to be fixed.

_‘Magic thrives on use. A mage who fears her magic cannot master it. When the demon come calling, she will not have the strength to deny them. The Circles are a cage made from fear. I cannot decide who is more stupid: the ones who built the cage, or the one who allow themselves to be put in it.’_ –Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds, Daughter of Flemeth, Companion of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, Arcane Advisor to the Imperial Court of Orlais, Liaison to the Inquisition.

* * *

 

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 19th Drakonis 9:21 Dragon ~

The seamstress, a Mistress Cynthia, had already arrived and had set up in the hall by the time that Nan had roused Caitlyn—and Rosina—from her sleep.

Two cloth dividers had been set up—one to shield from the sight from the side of the hall that Fergus’ (and Bran’s) room were and another to stop anyone just walking into the hall and seeing anything—around where a small stool where they would stand and be measured.

Caitlyn had no doubt that Nan would take this chance for them to be measured for new clothing for themselves—Nan hated wasting time after all—and that was the reason she merely washed her face and braided her hair before wrapping her dressing-robe around her and walked out into the hall on slipper-clad feet with Rosina following behind with some hesitation.

“Thank you, Nan,” she smiled at the old woman when she noticed a table had been set up with fruit, fresh bread, pots of jam, jugs of milk and juice and a silver enchanted teapot—all easy to eat and to put down with little fuss. Nan smiled at her—a slight smile that was almost smothered by her wrinkles that were more used to frowning then smiling—before she marched towards Kenna’s door with a forceful look on her face making Caitlyn smile as she settled down in one of the seats.

“Sit,” Caitlyn gestured towards one of the chairs as a strangled groan of dismay echoed from Kenna’s room and Rosina, her new lady-in-waited, hesitated before taking a seat after a wary glance around.

Caitlyn smiled at her, patient and calm, and watched as Rosina settled slightly—it would take time, Caitlyn knew, for Rosina to relax around her, for Caitlyn to trust her with her secrets, for the timid and wary air to fade from around her. Patience, time and care, everything Caitlyn had in spades from her alchemy studies and tending to her personal collection of plants needed for it.

Caitlyn turned her attention to the spread, making herself a cup of tea sweetened just slightly with honey, and was pleased that Nan had already placed her small collection of correspondences next to her plate—obviously having foreseen which chair Caitlyn would take, the chair at the head of the small table—and began to sort through them as Kenna came out with a freshly washed face and her copper hair braided in her usual crown.

Caitlyn’s rich blue eyes noted the golden fingers curled around the slim pale wrist of Lileas before she returned to her correspondences; a small scroll from Bran, several pages of rambling words from Botanist Ines Arancia about what other plant had caught her attention and she thought made be useful for Caitlyn’s own studies, a small but glowing letter from Brother Genitivi as he agreed to exchange letters with her and a rather long letter from Enchanter Vivienne, Madame de Fer, and newly appointed Court Enchanter from Orlais.

(She remembered staring at the mage that had come to asses if Kenna would stay with them—protected, loved—or would be leaving with him—alone, afraid—and asking about alchemy and such in the hopes of crafting tonics and such to help her sister, unknowing that her desire would lead her to exchange letters with such powerful and amazing people)

Caitlyn glanced over Brother Genitivi’s letter, pausing on certain key sentences—it seemed that Aldous had been bragging again, she noted with a surge of fondness—and resolving to take a another look later before she replied—Brother Genitivi wasn’t a contact that Caitlyn was writing to for her alchemical studies, but because she enjoyed his books and was fascinated by his writing, and range of subjects—she placed it on the side.

Botanist Arancia’s letter was easily placed to the side as it wasn’t something Caitlyn could read in one quick sitting.

No, often Botanist Arancia’s letters to take anywhere between an hour and several as she rambled in quick and small letters about this plant that Caitlyn would be interested in—and she normally was—before loosing track half-way through with another plant that Caitlyn wouldn’t find the same interest for.

Madame Vivienne’s letter was discarded for the moment, Caitlyn decided she could read it while awaiting her turn to be put under the scrutiny of the seamstress and her sharp pins.

Madame Vivienne was the only person that Caitlyn had reached out to that had seemed to sense Caitlyn’s less than purely academic interest and not be put off by a child wanting to delve in such a complex art form.

Something Caitlyn was grateful for as Madame Vivienne was obviously a master when it came to crafting potions and tonics, a level that Caitlyn would never truly reach as Madame Vivienne used her innate magical abilities to enrich her potions and had greater access to rare and difficult to get a hold of ingredients—either as her position as Enchanter in the Circle, Court Mage in the Courts or her own rather vast personal wealth.

Which left; Bran.

She read the small writing on the scroll—slim, but long, something easy to roll up and attach to a bird—and hummed as she read about his belief he would be returning home this year as she reached out for her tea—it had cooled down enough that Caitlyn knew she wouldn’t burn her mouth when she drank it—and to a sip as her gaze turned to Kenna.

There was a long-suffering look already on her face as she glanced to where the seamstress and aids were unrolling bolts of fabric and while that would normally amuse her—Kenna almost had as much problems standing still as Bran did, though Kenna’s restlessness was limited to being measured and having her clothes tailored to her when Bran seemed unable to sit still for almost everything—Caitlyn felt a stir of worry in her chest.

Kenna was seven now, it had been five years since Bran had left, and much had changed—Kenna had grown up—and she wasn’t sure how things would go when Bran returned.

Kenna of course knew Bran—or at least of him if she couldn’t remember him—but she didn’t know him like she knew Caitlyn and Fergus. And there were things about Kenna that Bran remained unaware of as neither Caitlyn or Fergus had dared put down their theories and such about Kenna’s dreams when they wrote to him, so he was as in the dark about Kenna’s _gift_ as their parents were.

Kenna’s dream, her apparent gift, remained an unspoken thing between Caitlyn and Fergus, a vow to protect their younger sister, and Caitlyn wasn’t sure she could break their knowing silence even for Bran. Her fingers drummed against the cup in her hands as she thought.

Bran was her brother, but Kenna was _hers_ —hers and Fergus’. Kenna had been theirs since she was four, when she had woken up screaming and crying and would only be soothed by them, when she was flinch away from their father’s reaching hand of comfort, cry harder at the sight of their mother’s worry, when she would only calm when Caitlyn held her close, and sleep when Fergus held her and rocked her to an unknown song.

Something had changed within the Cousland family, had changed when Kenna began dreaming, and it had settled in to a new norm—a norm, she realised that Bran didn’t have a place amongst them yet—as Kenna turned more to Fergus and Cait, and less to her parents despite her clear love for them because she couldn’t help but remember their father—gutted, and dying—and their mother—worried, a quiet resolve brewing in her stormy green eyes—and that made her hesitate in a way that she didn’t with Cait and Fergus.

Things were already changing with the sudden decision of making the Surana sisters their ladies-in-waiting and things would change more when Bran returned, Caitlyn would just have to deal with it.

Caitlyn slid the scroll under Madame Vivienne’s letter and resolved to speak to Fergus about her concerns when he returned for the night as Nan was able to con Kenna into going first.

The look Kenna threw Nan made it clear that she realised she was being manipulated before she sent a small look of reassurance towards Lileas—that looked a lot more nervous than Rosina as she nibbled on some apple slices—before setting her jaw as she made her way to the stool.

Mistress Cynthia chuckled warmly, well used to Kenna;

“It’ll be quick, Lady Kenna,” she reassured the young girl as she let her robe drop and stood on the stool. “Just need to make sure that your measurements haven’t changed too drastically.”

Mistress Cynthia took the tape-measure from one of her aids and stepped forward to measure Kenna.

“What have you learnt recently, my Lady?” Mistress Cynthia asked, knowing from experience it was easier and quicker for them all if Kenna was distracted by something while she did what she had to.

“Did you know that dwarves actually use gold as thread?” Kenna asked, eyes bright as she stared down at the seamstress that was measuring her. “They turn real gold into this thing metal thread to decorate their clothing.”

“We do the same up on the surface as well,” Mistress Cynthia informed her as Caitlyn felt confident enough to take her first read of Madame Vivienne’s letter.

“Doesn’t that hurt though?” Kenna asked with the slightest wrinkle of her nose. “Trying to sew with actual metal?”

“Yes,” Mistress Cynthia admitted easily, “but the way the thread catches the light makes it truly shine.” She glanced up with slightly amused eyes as one of her aid quietly noted Kenna’s measurements. “Would you like some actual gold thread this time?”

“No,” Kenna shook her head slightly, a frown on her face. “Seems a waste really as I’m only going to get it all dirty or outgrow it soon enough.”

“A surprisingly wise attitude from you,” Nan commented dryly making Kenna send her a look before sticking out her tongue. “Ah, that’s more like it. For a moment there I actually thought you had matured overnight.”

“Songbirds and laurels, correct?” Mistress Cynthia interrupted making Kenna nod and Caitlyn to smile slightly to herself—she would never admit to how close the seamstress came to having to marry rampaging Mabari hounds with the Cousland laurels, thankfully Caitlyn had been able to convince Kenna of the wisdom of choosing songbirds instead of her first choice when they had decided to personalise the Cousland laurel into something more closely linked and personal to them.

Caitlyn was also thankfully that she had managed to make Kenna interested in the delicate little songbirds when she was young—suffering from nightmares, clinging to Cait’s hand when she wasn’t in lessons or with Fergus—and they had come across a man selling them in the Market.

While a Mabari hound fitted Kenna’s personality much more than a songbird, she doubted even the talented Mistress Cynthia could marry them together in a way that would look anywhere close to nice.

“Can dresses be armoured?” Kenna asked curiously making Caitlyn pause mentally as she picked up her teacup.

That was an interesting idea, Caitlyn thought to herself as she leaned back in her chair and took a sip of cool tea—grimacing slightly as she realised she had let it cool to an almost undrinkable level—and decided she had another project to play with next to dealing with the Alienage.

* * *

 

 

Lileas Surana had quickly gotten a hand of her new lot of life, even if she was still bewildered by her new Lady—Kenna, she reminded herself—on-going insistence on them being friends—despite the fact that Kenna was a noble and Lileas was still an elven servant.

Every morning before breakfast, Lileas learnt that Kenna went through a series of stretches that she had encouraged Lileas in doing with her; Lileas had been stiff the first two days, but she was certain that she was getting the hang of them now.

Afterwards, Kenna and Lileas would have a quick wash—Kenna always braiding her hair into a crown around her head, securing it in place with simple and slim hairpins, and Lileas was allowed to wear her hair whatever way she liked, even if it meant she was showing off her pointed ears—and then dressed—Lileas in soft garments of midnight blue with the slightest hint of golden embroidery (golden laurels and small songbirds, that Kenna informed her was one of her favourite animals) and dark brown leather when needed while Rosina was dressed in soft garments of a rich blue with the slightest hint of golden and silver embroidery (golden laurels and silver blooming flowers) and white leather when needed because that was the colours of their ladies—before they were off to breakfast.

Lileas and Rosina didn’t sit with the squires nor the servants, no, they sat beside their ladies at the top table and ate the same food as their ladies as well.

The rich food had made her sick the first day, something that Kenna had noticed, and she had quickly changed her breakfast to a simpler fare of porridge with honey to sweeten it and freshly cut fruit in an attempt to help her slowly get used to the rich fare—it was thoughtful especially since Kenna obviously didn’t like porridge, but she still ate it with that stubborn set of her jaw that was rapidly becoming familiar to Lileas.

Afterwards they had lessons with Aldous—Aldous was almost as old as Nan, but without her frowny wrinkles—and Lileas was given special attention to catch her up with Kenna’s level.

She had felt terrible that she was wasting Aldous’ time and using up all of Kenna’s lesson times, but Kenna had simply smiled and said she needed the extra time anyway as she was nowhere near to the brilliance of her elder sister.

Aldous had added he had seen an improvement to Kenna’s written work now he was forced to give her more time, and it saved him having to make her redo it again—he also added, with a rather dry tone, that it was nice to teach someone that obviously enjoyed learning and his attention.

(It was odd, Lileas had thought and Rosina had agreed when Lileas brought it up, that the servants were so free with their words, opinions and attitude towards the children of their employers without fearing censure from their Lord and Lady)

After lessons, they’d head back to Kenna’s room to have a quick lunch—cold cuts of meat, bread, cheese and fruits with cups of chilled milk—and then Lileas would help Kenna change into her practise armour—Lileas had been shocked when the Armourer had come to measure Lileas for some, and it comforted her that Rosina was likewise be getting armour and training—and then they would head down to the Training Grounds.

While Commander Kenneth Nolan beat Kenna into a sweaty, bruised mess, Lileas was placed with Ser Morgan Ford—who had sighed when Kenna had proudly presented Lileas to her— and who got Lileas used to the different feel of the wooden training weapons—Lileas had taken a liking to a bladed-staff type weapon, which would make her mid-range fighter compared to Kenna’s close-ranged fighting, something that made Ser Morgan nod slightly in approval—and their weight.

Afterwards, Lileas would help a limping and sweaty Kenna back to her room where she would soak in a steaming hot bath laced with elfroot oil and afterwards Lileas would help her lather her bruises with a paste that Lady Caitlyn had apparently made—something that Rosina was learning about during her time with Lady Caitlyn—that helped sooth the painfully looking bruises. They’d change into fresh clothes—Lileas still couldn’t get over how many clothes she had nor the amount of times she was expected to change and bath—before going for dinner—the only real rich fare that Lileas had to eat and she was slowly getting used to it.

After dinner, they spent time with Lady Caitlyn, Rosina and often Teyrna Eleanor where they would talk, sew or read together for about two hours before they headed back to their room, bathed and then bed—only after Kenna drunk the tea that Lady Caitlyn prepared for her every night.

It was her new schedule, her new way of life, and Lileas was happy to relax into.

So, of course, Kenna would once again turn her life upside down.

* * *

 

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 25th Drakonis 9:21 Dragon ~

Kenna frowned thoughtfully to herself as Lileas tied off her braid with a midnight blue ribbon.

“How do you suppose one goes about finding an apostate?” Kenna asked making Lileas twist and stare at her with uneasy pale green eyes.

“Why do you want to find an apostate?” Lileas asked warily, still just a shadow of who she would become—Kenna almost wished she had a clearer image of who she would become like she did with Lileas and Cait because she thought that made things easier and would maybe encourage her when Ser Kenneth knocked her down for the dozenth time.

Kenna frowned for a moment then realisation hit her, and she stared at Lileas in surprise.

“You don’t know yet, do you?” she asked, somehow surprised that she knew that Lileas was a mage when the elf wasn’t yet aware. “You’re a mage.”

Lileas’ mouth dropped, and her face paled dangerously as she swayed on the stool making Kenna jump up to steady her.

“I’m not, I can’t be,” Lileas told her, her voice trembling and Kenna held her by the shoulders, Lileas’ pale hands gripped at Kenna’s wrists as she stared up at Kenna with scared pale-green eyes.

Lileas was panicking; she couldn’t be a mage, could she? She would have known by now, wouldn’t she? Oh Maker, had Kenna called the Templars already? But she had no proof! Lileas wasn’t a mage! She wasn’t! But would that mean anything?! Kenna was a noble while Lileas was just an elf! They were going to drag her to the Tower! They were going to take her from Rosina!

“Breathe!” Kenna commanded anxiously, eyes wide as Lileas began gasping great shuddering breaths. “It’s alright! We’re going to find you a tutor and everything will be okay!”

“I’m not a mage!” Lileas gasped out, trembling and pale. “Please!”

Kenna didn’t know what to do as tears began to brim in Lileas’ pale green eyes and just hugged her, swaying her slightly like Fergus did when Kenna woke everyone up with her screams and he wanted to calm her, making the same nonsense sounds that Cait gave when she held Kenna close.

“I promise you,” Kenna told her fiercely, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, we’re going to find someone that can teach you, we’ll keep it a secret, you won’t have to leave.”

“Why?” Lileas gasped, hot tears staining the soft tunic that Kenna was wearing—she’d be embarrassed about that later—though she wasn’t aware of what she was really asking.

“Because you’re my friend,” Kenna told her, fiercely and simply. “And you’ll always be my friend, I know that for a fact.”

“You…don’t…” Lileas gasped, sobs shuddering her.

“I do, I knew the moment I saw you and saw who you would become,” Kenna told her, grimacing as Lileas just shook her head and sobbed, and decided to tell Lileas her secret—Lileas was hers, was hers from the moment Kenna had seen her future spectre in her mind’s eyes dressed in her colours, brilliant and confident. “I dream about the future, I have since I was four, but when I first saw you, I saw it without sleeping. I saw who you would become, brilliant and beautiful, and mine—my friend, my confident, mine.”

Lileas listened, calming slightly, as Kenna spoke of the Lileas she had seen, of her dreams, of how that Kenna promised that no one would take her away, that she wouldn’t let them, how she was going to be amazing, that Kenna would look after her and protect her until she could do it herself, that she would find the best tutor she could, that she would hide it from even Lady Caitlyn and Lord Fergus, that no one had to know if that was what Lileas wanted.

And despite herself, Lileas believed.

She believed the impossible tale of dreams and visions of the future, she believed in the way Kenna promised no one would take her away despite her youth, she believed that Kenna thought she would grow up to be brilliant, she believed Kenna when she reaffirmed that they would be friends.

She believed in Kenna Cousland, her Lady and her friend.


	7. Chapter Seven

_'Nobility does not exist without obligation. We owe everything we have, even our lives, to our land and people.'_ –Arl Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Denerim, formerly of Redcliffe, Chancellor to the King.

* * *

 

If one listened to the Chantry's rumours—fear-mongering, Cait had once muttered to her as they walked passed a particularly inspired and loud lay-sister when they had visited the market—than apostates were hidden in every dark shadow, plotting to turn their evil blood magic against the unwary masses while also being your neighbour that was just wrong word away from turning into a mindless Abomination that would rip you apart before you could plead for mercy.

The reality of it?

Apostates were people, people born with amazing and frightening powers that they had to battle every day to control and had demon whispering in their dreams every night, waiting for the slightest slip in control, the slightest falter in their will.

They were dangerous, yes, but give an idiot a sword and he could be just as dangerous—Fergus had told her that once.

Most apostates kept to themselves, did their best to keep under the notice of the Templars, learnt as much as possible on their own or through trusted sources, and always ready to pack up and move when they felt the Templars were getting too close for their likely.

Something that made Kenna fairly confident that there were apostates in Highever; Highever was a large city, larger than Amaranthine, rivalling Gwaren in the south, and only dwarfed by Denerim in the east—the perfect place for someone to disappear into the mass of people packed in the great towering walls and keep under the notice of Templars.

And most importantly in Kenna's opinion? Highever was a port city; if any apostate thought the Templars were getting too close than they could easily jump onto one of the ships that left the harbour every day and disappear somewhere else.

So, Kenna was confident that there were apostates in Highever, but she was also confident that it wouldn't be easy to get into contact with any of them.

It wasn't like Kenna could put up a notice on the Chantry board—that was just asking for trouble—nor could she search for them obviously—that would bring attention to her, to Lileas, and that would mean the Tower ( _that would mean a sun-burst on a pale forehead or dead pale green eyes as blood stained her robes, and she couldn't let that happen_!) and Lileas taken away.

So, how does a young noble girl and her elven servant search for an apostate without being obvious, without causing suspicion and fear amongst said apostates and general masses, without letting said noble girl's family become aware that said young noble girl had knowingly arranged to take an elven mage into her employment, without gaining the suspicion of the knight/guard that would be shadowing them and without the knowledge of Nan?

What they needed was a cunning plan, and luckily, Kenna had already thought of one as Lileas calmed down and did her best to hide away all signs of her panicked crying.

And that plan started with a simple request.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 25th Drakonis 9:21 Dragon ~

"You what?" Nan asked with a frown.

"I want to spend the day walking around Highever," Kenna repeated as she stared up at Nan.

"Why?" Nan asked suspiciously of her charge.

"Do I need a reason?" Kenna sighed—a tad dramatically under Nan's look.

"I thought Lileas would like spending some time away from the Castle and maybe meet up with some of her friends." Nan frowned, glancing behind her charge towards where Lileas stood just behind Kenna—Kenna's golden tanned fingers were wrapped securely around Lileas' wrist once again, Nan noticed—and took in the rather nervous look on the young elf's face as she shifted under Nan's gaze.

"I hope you realise that you will not be traipsing out on your own," Nan said sharply making Kenna nod her head. "Fine, but you will make sure to be home before dark—if I have to go and look for you, you won't be happy when I catch up to you—and you will be letting Ser Kenneth know that you won't be training with him."

"Of course, Nan," Kenna smiled making Nan eye her even more suspiciously.

"Don't you dare cause trouble," Nan warned her, making her young charge give her a look of innocent that only made Nan snort. "Lileas, keep an eye on this fool of a girl for me."

"Yes, ma'am!" Lileas almost yelped when Nan turned her sharp tone and sharper eyes onto her making Nan nod shortly to herself with a glint of satisfaction in her dark eyes as she turned to track down a knight to protect her charge. "She's so scary."

Kenna glanced over her shoulder at Lileas with a slight frown; "Really?" the red-head asked doubtfully. "I don't think she's that scary."

Lileas shook her head in slight disbelief, she had quickly realised that Kenna held no fear when it came to Nan unlike everyone else—Lileas wasn't sure if that made Kenna rather brave or rather foolish, but she knew to keep such thoughts to herself.

* * *

 

Highever's market was a large square filled with bustling people, almost overflowing stalls and ringed by stores.

There was a clamour of accented voices hawking their wares, the smell of spices and cooking food, a dazzle of colours and the almost overwhelming warmth of dozens upon dozens of bodies.

But what Kenna was most interested in? The slight figures that weaved their way through the crowd, quick hands snatching out here and slipping into pockets there, their youthful face gaunt in the way of those that didn't get enough food to eat.

The street urchins, the little thieves, the street-rats, call them what you will—to Kenna they were an untapped gold-mine of information that she was going to tap as much as possible.

While Kenna wasn't old enough nor had the connects to get them into some sort of stable employment, she was still a noble's daughter with access to wealth—enough wealth to pay them for the information and feed them for the day. It wasn't much, Kenna was aware of that, but it was something, something she could do at her age and it was better for them to be turned into her own personal spies then keep thieving—sooner or later they would be caught, and people weren't kind to thieves.

That, however, meant that Kenna would have to keep it up and not just drop them when she had gotten what she wanted, she wouldn't be that type of noble. Before she did anything, attempt to gain information, she went towards a small stall that sold baskets that was manned by two women—probably a grandmother and her granddaughter considering the difference in ages and the slight resembles.

The grandmother was the basket weaver, half-blind from age and hands gnarled but still firm and skilled as she bent the willows into place just next to the stall as her granddaughter smiled at them.

"What can I do for you, m'lady?" the granddaughter asked, leaning across the worn counter.

"Your largest basket please," Kenna decided after a quick glance and ignoring the sudden raise of voices as the merchants realised that one of the Teyrn's daughters was visiting the market, all hoping to hawk their wares to her.

Kenna paid double what it was worth to the protest of the granddaughter, but she had noticed that the stall was worn, and most people didn't do more than stop and watch the grandmother doing her craft—they didn't appreciate the simple, but strong design that the grandmother weaved and Kenna wasn't going to let them starve because someone didn't realise just how long these types of baskets could last.

Her next port of call was one of the food stalls to fill the basket up—Lileas suggesting the meat-pies as that would be filling for them—before she turned her gaze around, lingering on the children that watched her with cautious eyes as they moved amongst the crowd or lingered by the alleyways.

She had a job to do, children to recruit, and information to gain.

* * *

 

_He stood before her, bold as anything, with wide pale-blue eyes that reminded her of sea-glass and shaped in a way that spoke of elven blood._

_He looked down upon her from his superior height and a smirk curled his lips—an arrogant smirk that almost made her bristle._

_"I'm glad you're not some prim and proper noble daughter," he informed her without even introducing himself and this time Kenna did bristle—Cait was considered one of those prim and proper noble daughters, and she would not allow anyone to insult her either directly or indirectly._

_"And what would be so wrong if I was?" she challenged, jaw set, and he raised his right tanned hand in a gesture of surrender—his left still stuffed into his pocket—and an almost mocking look on his face._

_"Nothing, nothing," he grinned at her, seemingly pleased by the display of temper that made her mother sigh. "Just I'd prefer my employer to have more fight to them."_

_"Employer?" she snorted at his words—he had never seen Cait shot down squirrels and rabbits from a distance then, Cait wasn't a meek prim and proper daughter despite her pretty looks. "And why should I 'employ' you?"_

_"Because I have information," he smirked at her, self-satisfied and smug, "information that you want."_

_"And what do you want in return?" Kenna asked as Lileas stepped closer, a slight frown on her pale face as she stared up at the older boy._

_"A steady source of income, food on the table and a weight off my mother's shoulders," he told her easily. "That's not too much to ask for, is it?"_

_"And how do you know what information I want?" Kenna pressed, unconvinced._

_"So, you're not interested in someone that can do…. certain things that others can't and are afraid of?" he asked as he wiggled his fingers at her in a gesture that seemed meaningless, but still made something cold go down her spine and make Lileas gasp—he did know, Kenna realised with a sense of grimness._

_Kenna narrowed her eyes as she stepped closer, ignoring the nervous shifting of the young guard behind, and glared up at him as he smirked down at her._

_"I suppose," she spoke through gritted teeth as his smirk widened—both knew he had her after all. "That I should know the name of my employee."_

_"I'm Gi—" he introduced himself and held out his left hand, a challenging light in his pale blue eyes, and Kenna didn't more than blink as she took in the clawed and deformed hand that was held out before her before she took it in her own hand and shook his hand briskly._

_Something in the set of his rather board shoulders seemed to relax at her reaction, his smirk almost softening as a flash of relief spread across his face that made her blink. That blink was all it took for him to put back his arrogant smirk in place, but Kenna didn't forget as he mockingly bowed before her and lead her away from the bustling market._

_It seemed there was more to Gi— that he was ready to show to her, but Kenna wasn't deterred, he was her employee after all._

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 10 Cloudreach 9:21 ~

Kenna rolled on her back, frowning up at her stone ceiling as she thought about her latest dream.

"He's going to be so annoying, isn't he?" she asked out loud as Lileas snuffled in her sleep—no doubt hugging her rabbit close.

"Smug little…." She trailed off before she said the word that would make Nan take her over her knee—noble daughter or no—before going rail at the knights that dared utter that language around her young charge despite the fact it was the middle of the night and Nan would never know.

"Kenna?" Lileas asked sleepily making Kenna turn so she could peer down at her through the darkness.

"Why are you awake?" Lileas peered sleepily up at her, her pale green eyes glowing in the dim light, as she yawned.

"Had a dream," Kenna told her quietly as she reached out to sooth Lileas' wayward pale hair. "Do you know a boy who's really smug with blue eyes and a deformed hand?"

Lileas blinked, still half-sleep, and frowned up at Kenna.

"Giles? You dreamt about Giles?" Lileas asked around a yawn.

"Why?" Kenna closed her eyes tightly as his name made something in her mind click, knowledge unfolding itself painfully and a haze attempted to take shape—his spectre selves, no doubt—that she pushed away mentally for now. Giles, yes, that was who he was, and he was important, like Lileas was important.

Kenna didn't know if she should be happy about that or not, he seemed annoyingly smug after all, but she supposed he'd grow on her—like mould maybe, she thought with a mental smirk.

"Doesn't matter," Kenna said after a moment as she stroked at Lileas' hair, smiling slightly as Lileas turned her head into her hand and nuzzled at her pillow at the same time. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmkay," Lileas yawned as she drifted back to sleep.

Kenna closed her eyes and 'let' a spectre of his future appear in her mind's eyes—there was only one, it seemed she had already made her choice regarding him.

He stood like he was leaning against something, a smug smirk curling at his lips that Kenna felt would be very familiar to her.

Pale blue sea-glass eyes gleamed with intelligence from under sun-bleached hair, his head titling almost towards her like a cat—a tall, board-shouldered cat maybe. A glint of gold caught her mental eye; he wore a pin on the collar of his long jacket, a small golden songbird with a laurel clutched tightly in its talons—her symbol part of her recognised.

Unmistakably hers in a way that Lileas was—or would be—despite not dressing in her colours. No, his clothing were dark muted colours, thick to deter wear and keep him warm, but he wore her symbol, openly and proudly, with full confidence in himself and her.

"You're mine, aren't you?" Kenna whispered, her eyes closed as she mentally watched his future-self.

Giles titled his head in agreement, that same smug smirk curling his lips, and pale eyes dancing with amusement at her expense she couldn't help but think.

"You're going to be so annoying," Kenna sighed as she blinked the spectre away and stroked Lileas' hair soothingly—for Lileas' benefit or her own, she wasn't sure about.

Kenna drifted, hand still stretched out to pat at Lileas' pale hair, and she dreamt of a smug smirk and sea-glass blue eyes.

* * *

 

_"You're hopeless at this," Giles informed her, leaning over her so closely that she could feel his warmth._

_"Shut up," Kenna groaned as she leaned back against both her chair and him, glaring at the broken lock-pick and the stubborn lock on her desk._

_"I can do this with only one good hand," he continued making her lean her head back against his torso and glare up at him. He only smirked down at her making her scowl._

_"You're so annoying," she informed him making his smirk widen._

_"Thank you," he replied with cheeky smugness making Lileas snort from where she was lounging across Kenna's bed as she conjured balls of light with the slightest frown of concentration that bobbed up in the air above her out-stretched hand, the foci crystal around her throat glowing slightly._

_Kenna glared up at him, eyes flashing, before she turned towards her lock and picked up the next set of lock-picks as her jaw set._

_"Careful now," Giles told as he bent so he could rest his head beside hers. "Don't force it, or you'll break another set of picks."_

_"I know," she told him, jaw clenching as she resisted the urge of just forcing it open or just letting Lileas freeze it so she could break it without much effort._

_"Just reminding you," Giles smirked, she could feel how his cheek lifted as he was that close._

_"You're so annoying," Kenna grumbled at him again, hunching in her seat in a vary unlady-like manner._

_Giles, the bastard, just laughed into her ear just as the latest lock-pick snapped._

* * *

 

~ Market, Highever, 12 Cloudreach 9:21 Dragon ~

Giles watched from his place leaning against a wall to watch as the Littlest Cousland entered the market again, waiting for her to head towards the basket stall then to the food stall before she would then begin her rounds. Only, this time she paused as she looked around, mismatched gaze shifting through the crowd as if she was searching for someone.

Interesting, he thought before clenching his jaw slightly, but potentially annoying if that meant she had found someone with the information she needed.

Giles wasn't having that, not after weeks of watching her and figuring out what motived her acts of charity to the lowest of the low, not when he had to argue fiercely for Granny to even agree to met the noble girl.

No, Giles wasn't letting another snot-nosed brat take away his chance. He pushed away from the wall and began to weave his way through the crowd and towards his employer—even if she didn't know that yet—and kept a sharp eye out for any brat that looked smug or eager enough make the Little Cousland look like that.

Only there wasn't, and when he was within sight of her, those eyes of her lit up with recognition and determinisation.

She strode towards him when he paused in confusion. "Giles?" she asked, but her tone of voice said she was confident she was right, and he nodded, caught off guard—she was searching for him? How in the name of the Maker did she know of him? He doubted the Littlest Surana had informed her even if she did remember him.

"Good," she grinned at him, a smug grin that said she knew she had caught him off guard and she was going to revel in it, "as my employee, I expect you to greet me when I arrive in the Market—"

"What?" he spluttered, but she ignored him with that same grin. "—with any information that may be important in hand," she continued as she moved towards the basket stall with the Littlest Surana attempting to hide a grin behind her and the Cousland reached out and grabbed his hand to pull him along. "

Oi!" he objected but was ignored by all but the knight that shifted as he followed along behind his charge without a word.

"You will then, of course, join me on my rounds," she informed him as the Surana talked to the owners of the stall. "Because even though you will be my only official employee, I'm not just going to stop paying and feeding them."

His head was spinning with confusion as the little slip of a noble dragged him along, still informing him of what he was expected to do as her employee, and he didn't know if he should be pissed or not that his carefully scripted plans had gone up in smoke the moment she opened her mouth.

 _Well_ , he thought with a hint of dry amusement, _at least she now knows she my employer_.


	8. Chapter Eight

_'Magic exists to serve man, and never rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.'_ –Chant of Light, Transfigurations 1:1-5.

* * *

 

~ The Alienage, Highever, 12th Cloudreach 9:21 Dragon ~

Giles leaned against the door of his home as his Boss—as he had decided to call her—forced the young Knight to bend to her stubborn will despite the Knight being just over a decade her senior.

(No, you will not be going in with me. Why? Can't you see how small these homes are? You'll take up all the space in that armour. How are you going to protect me? I'm not some delicate flower, and I'll scream if I need help fending off an old woman. No, I will not be inform Nan so you can rest easily. Giles isn't a stranger, he's my employee. Oi, are you saying I can't have an employee? No? Good. I will be fine, just enjoy some rest. You'll be right outside the door, I highly doubt anyone can get past you. Just try not to scare everyone, okay?)

Kenna Cousland, Giles decided as he listened, would never be known for having a silver tongue—that would probably go to her sister if rumours were to believed. That didn't mean she wouldn't be able to get people to do what she wanted however, Giles knew, she'd just get it through sheer force of personality and pure stubbornness.

Granny should hopefully like her, Giles thought and then he wondered what she thought of the show because there was no doubt in Giles' mind that his grandmother wasn't watching. He hoped she realised just why Giles was tying his lot in with the youngest Cousland despite them both being little more than children.

Kenna Cousland wasn't the average noble daughter, she wasn't the type that would be depicted in stories for a valiant knight to rescue and marry. No, Kenna Cousland was the type of girl that would rescue herself and scoff at the so-called valiant knight when he proposed marriage.

Practical, hard-working, stubborn as anything and protective of those she termed hers, that was what Kenna Cousland was—one only had to see the way those golden tanned fingers would wrap protectively and reassuringly around Lileas' thin and pale wrist, the way she kept just in front of the elven girl that most would dismiss as how nobles had to stand in front of their servants and not seeing it as the protective gesture it was.

Giles wanted that.

He wanted that easily given protection and care, he wanted to have the security that Kenna Cousland gave to Lileas Surana without hesitation, he wanted the stress around his mother's eyes as she worried about his future to be gone. Giles had been looked down upon, pitied and disgusted by the fact his left hand was disformed, clawed, and no one would hire a boy—let alone when he became a man—that was considered crippled, damaged goods.

Kenna Cousland had, in his mind, been his only chance and despite things not going to his plan, he was more convinced by it than ever. When she had seen his crippled hand, she didn't recoil, didn't let pity soften her face, didn't hesitate as she held it as easily as she held his right hand—only a slight frown as she tried to hold it in a way that wasn't uncomfortable for both of them—and that acceptance, offered so easily and without thinking, made something tight in his chest ease and the tension in his shoulders to go.

Yes, Giles was certain that he had made the right choice, and nobody was going to make him doubt that.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 12th Cloudreach 9:21 Dragon ~

Caitlyn smiled politely at the dwarf across from her as Rosina carefully poured the tea for both of them before she took her place just behind Caitlyn's shoulder, standing despite the fact that Caitlyn and the dwarf was sitting across from each other.

It had taken weeks of convincing, arguing and planning with both her father and Hahren of the Alienage, but finally, Caitlyn had been able to arrange a meeting with House Cadash.

House Cadash have had a place in Highever since the time of Teyrna Elethea Cousland in the Exalted Age. Elethea Cousland may have bent the knee to Calenhad Theirin, but that didn't mean she didn't take steps in case another would-be-King or enemy attempted to take Highever so that her people would survive, and those enemies would regret attempting to take the Cousland's seat of power.

House Cadash had been recently exiled from Orzammar and needed a new home, Elethea offered them a place amongst her people in exchange for them building Lowever and the many hidden pathways to it.

It had been four Ages since they had come to that agreement, and while House Cadash had expanded and some had moved across the Waking Sea, there was still a branch in Highever and would be as long as the Couslands lived.

It only made sense for Caitlyn to reach out to House Cadash with her plans to renovate the Alienage.

"Shall we get down to business?" she asked the dwarf, rich blue eyes bright with plans.

"Let's," the dwarf grunted as she pushed her plans across the desk for him to review.

Caitlyn was rather proud of her plans and was hopeful Dain Cadash didn't see too many problems with her ideas. While she had partly wanted to make all new houses for the elves, she had known it wasn't practical for the space in the Alienages. She had instead decided to make buildings of apartments that would circle the great tree in the middle.

She had added plans to make gardens on the roof, allowing the elves to grow some of their own food, and balconies for them to dry their washing. Basements for storage would be linked to Lowever, allowing the elves to easily retreat to Lowever if the worse happened—which may very well happen if Kenna's dreams were true.

"Not bad," he finally muttered as he leaned back in his seat. "It'll be easier to tear it all down, re-use what we can to save money, and then build from scratch."

"I suppose the elves would have to live in Lowever till then," Caitlyn figured making Dain nod.

"I'll offer jobs to any of them that won't mind hard work," Dain informed her. "Let them see their new homes take shape under their own hands—might ease some of minds."

"How long will this take?" Caitlyn asked as she reached for some parchment to start jotting down things that would need to be prepared down in Lowever—she was glad she and the Hahren had already foreseen this and had come to an agreement to the possibility.

"Ten years, give or take," Dain decided after a moment, "it depends on how much we can re-use, how fast we work and how fast we can get new stone in."

"I've already written to a Quarry," she told him as she wrote. "They will be waiting for your own report before they start mining the stone."

"It seems you have everything in hand than," Dain Cadash grinned in amusement. "You'll be terrifying when you grow up."

"Thank you," Caitlyn flashed him a pretty smile making him laugh. "Now, shall we talk money?"

"Let's," he agreed as he leaned forward as they haggled.

Some may have been insulted by young woman—basically still a child—calling a meeting like this, they may have underestimated her or have tried to cheat her. Dain wasn't like that though, not when he had a younger sister that was as brilliant and gifted as Caitlyn Cousland was proving herself to be.

Davia was quickly becoming House Cadash's best artificer despite still being classed as a child in most people's eyes. The branch of the House that ruled the Carta were already making requests of her joining them, not that Dain would allow it.

As he haggled, Dain also began to plan a way to keep Davia out of the Carta's hands—they may have been family, but the Carta wasn't the type of world that he wanted his little sister to be part of.

He wondered if this young Cousland wouldn't mind employing a young dwarf—no doubt, he mused as he took a quick glance around the room and took in all the alchemy equipment, they would have a lot to talk about.

* * *

 

~ Guard's Quarters, Highever, 12th Cloudreach 9:21 Dragon ~

"Oh, come on!" Fergus almost groaned as another load of paperwork was dumped on his desk. "Why are you dumping this on me?"

"Because it's your job," Alison Waters informed him with a hint of a smirk. "Acting Guard-Captain."

Fergus just groaned as he laid his head on his desk.

"Ser Kenneth is laughing at me," he informed his fellow guard and acting secretary. "Guard-Captain Kane is laughing at me. They are both laughing at me together, the bastards."

"These need to be reviewed and signed before the end of the day," she told him without sympathy making him groan again.

"You are a cruel, cruel woman," Fergus sat up and declared.

"Thank you, Guard-Captain," she told him with an almost demure smile and sharp greyish blue eyes.

"I'm never introducing you to Cait," he decided with a shudder of horror at the thought, "you'd end up ruling Highever before the end of the day."

"I promise we would be kind to you," she informed him a hint of a smirk. "Keep you nice and pampered so we can march you out as our pretty front-piece."

"Aww, you think I'm pretty," Fergus mockingly fluttered his eyelashes at her. "You'll make me blush."

"Blush and read, sir, blush and read," Alison told him without missing a beat.

"Yeah, yeah," Fergus sighed as he reached out for the top page. "You know, when I asked to squire for Ser Kenneth, I imagined more Tourneys and training and less paperwork."

"The realities of the world are obviously cruel, sir," Alison dryly added as she turned to leave.

"So cruel," he agreed as he began to long-process of reading as the door shut behind Alison.

He had barely gotten to the second paragraph when the door opened, and another guard came in with more paperwork. "Oh! Come on!" Fergus cried out making Alison smirk from her desk outside his office.

"Why does the Maker hate me so?!" Alison snickered, she decided she wouldn't let him know that those reports could wait till the end of the week for a few more hours.

"Get out! Leave me alone! Get me some more tea!" Fergus called out, and Alison could almost picture the panic on his face as he frantically tried to arrange the paperwork into order.

She almost snickered again, she was rather enjoying Guard-Captain Kane's time off, and hummed to herself as she remembered she had another week of this entertainment before he was back to work.

With that happy thought in mind, she turned towards her own paperwork to the sound of Fergus Cousland spluttering—he must have taken a sip of cold tea again, she thought with a smirk.

* * *

 

~ Harbour, The Storm Coast, 12th Cloudreach 9:21 Dragon ~

Brannon Cousland leaned against the wall as he watched as one of the ship-builders carefully painted his ship's name on it—Ravencrest, that's the name he had decided to call his ship after the figure-head of the great raven with its wings flared back.

"Thought I'd find you here," a voice that was as familiar as his own spoke making him glance up.

Art smiled at him as he leaned beside him, his board-shoulders almost the same level as Bran's head—his cousin had really take after their grandfather in height and build, Bran thought to himself, while Bran himself had the slimmer and shorter build of his father, not that that made Bran short as he was still growing and should reach around six-foot maybe even taller.

"Nervous, Captain?" Art asked him making Bran smile slightly.

"You could have been a captain too," he reminded his cousin making Art shake his head.

"Me? In charge? No thanks, I'm happy being your first-mate," Art informed him making Bran laugh slightly—remembering the way Art's eyes had widened in panic when Grandfather had asked if he wanted his own ship too, how he had basically shouted out that he would just follow Bran without warning and how Grandfather had laughed heartily at his fear and panic."You still didn't answer my question."

"Maybe a little," Bran admitted. "It'll be strange, seeing everyone again. Kenna's going to be so different."

"I think it'll be nice, meeting Aunt Eleanor and everyone," Art decided making Bran smile.

"Our first trip after Highever will be Ostwick," Bran told him, despite the fact both had already agreed to that. "I want to meet your siblings too."

"Ewan will be about Kenna's age," Art remembered. "Huh, it's hard to imagine him as anything but the bawling toddler I last saw."

"Tell me about it," Bran grumbled slightly. "Kenna's going to be big, she's going to be actually talking properly now. And she won't be able to just follow me around like she used to, she'll have lessons and such."

"Are you pouting that your little sister can't toddle after you with big loving eyes?" Art teased making Bran shove at him with his shoulder—not that it moved the boulder that was his cousin. "Aww, poor Bran."

"Shut up," Bran told him, ignoring the heat he could feel raising up his face which just made Art laugh—that great booming laugh that reminded him of their grandfather.

* * *

 

~ Giles' Home, Highever Alienage, Highever, 12th Cloudreach 9:21 ~

Giles' grandmother was Dalish, Lileas had known that before she had entered the house as she was the only Dalish elf in the Alienage. But knowing, and seeing was different things, Lileas knew.

She was a slim woman, with dark grey and white hair pulled back into a firm bun. The branches that spread across her brow and framed her eyes—her grandson's eyes, Lileas noted—were faint from age and sun. She hadn't stood when they had entered, she remained sat at the small and worn table with several leather-bound books stacked in front of her and watched them with sharp pale blue eyes that she shared with Giles.

Giles had ushered them into the two seats across from his grandmother before he leaned against the window, mid-way between both sides and stopping anyone from seeing anything if they looked in.

"So," the older elf began sharply, her eyes fixed on Kenna. "You're the noble that my grandson has decided to swear himself to."

"And you're Giles' grandmother," Kenna said in return. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."

"It was the only way to shut him up," she informed Kenna with drily. "It was the only way I could get a moments peace."

"He can be annoying, can't he?" Kenna asked making Giles scowl at her and the woman to snort.

"You have no idea," she informed the noble child with that same dry tone she used before. "Now, you are here, you can tell me why a shemlen noble is harbouring a knife-eared mage and is so willing to spit in the face of the precious Chantry."

"Because she's my friend," Kenna said without hesitation, fiercely and stubbornly, and Lileas ducked her head to hide her smile.

"You are willing to risk everything for a friend?" she scoffed making Kenna scowl at her as Lileas flinched—she wasn't unaware of what Kenna was risking after all.

"She's my friend," Kenna repeated, "that means she's mine to protect, to care for, and I will."

"Should my grandson expect the same foolish loyalty then?" she asked doubtfully.

"Giles is mine now," Kenna told the woman fiercely, "my friend, my employee, mine to protect and care for."

For a moment the woman stared at Kenna before scoffing again.

"I can see why Giles likes you so much," she finally said.

"And you?" Kenna asked boldly making her lips twitch.

"I maybe beginning to like you," she inclined her head as if that was a bit declaration before turning her sharp gaze onto Lileas. "My name is Mirwen. I will be doing my best to make sure you are at least acceptable when it comes to magic and will not risk discovery. Now, what magic have you been able to do without training?"

Lileas shared a glance with Kenna, who in turn, gave her an encouraging look.

She took a deep breath as she stretched out her hand and kept her palm facing up, a frown twisted her features as she focused before a small orb of light—no bigger than an egg really—blinked into being just over her palm and bobbed there.

Mirwen leaned forward, a hint of interest on her features as she reached out to poke at the light, it bent a little under her finger but didn't dissipate.

"It's not a wisp," she spoke almost to herself before she leaned back and stared at Lileas. "How did you think of this?"

"Fire could get out of control, ice maybe noticed, and we didn't know what else we could try without risking discovery," Kenna spoke up. "So, we came up with something that would be hidden more easily, wasn't like to cause damage, and would be useful in the future."

"You came up with it," Merwin said towards Kenna with certainty, interest clear in her sharp eyes. "Many mages would say that," she waved towards the orb, "was impossible."

Lileas and Kenna shared puzzled looks at that, and Lileas decided to speak.

"But its magic," she argued, a frown of confusion on her face. "Shouldn't anything be possible if we willed it hard enough? Isn't that why people fear us? Because we can do the impossible?"

For a moment Mirwen just stared at them in silence before a smile twitched at her mouth and a chuckle slipped out. "

Oh," Merwin almost breathed out, "I'm going to enjoy teaching you."

Somehow, Lileas didn't know if it was a good thing or not.

"Granny likes you," Giles smirked at them, "I knew she would."

"Don't be so smug," Merwin told her grandson before snatching the orb from Lileas' palm and rolling in her hands as she tested it. "You would be wasted in a Tower, bogged down by rules and laws, watched by Templars, discouraged from experimenting with your magic too much. Yes, I'm going to enjoy teaching you." Merwin looked up at Kenna then.

"Especially with this one coming up with ideas," Merwin smiled, a small smile. "Yes, I'm really going to enjoy this."

"That's good?" Kenna ventured, both Lileas and herself baffled why a small orb of light was causing all this fuss. Kenna decided just to go with it, they had secured a teacher for Lileas, she had gained an employee, everything was great.

"You'll need to get a staff," Merwin informed them as she crushed the orb in hand, watching in interest as it winked back in place when she opened her palm, "if only for the foci crystal."

"I was thinking we could just get the crystal," Kenna told her making Merwin look at her in interest. "Turn the crystal into a necklace."

"Hiding it in plain-sight," Merwin nodded in understanding. "That's an interesting idea. It's not been done before, but I don't see why it couldn't. It may even help keep mages hidden if it works."

Lileas could almost see Kenna physically biting her tongue, Kenna knew without a doubt that it worked as she had already seen it, but she wasn't going to say that to Merwin even if she eventually told Giles' about her dreams.


	9. Chapter 9

_'It doesn't matter that they won't remember me. What matters is I helped.'_ –Cole, Former Ghost of the White Spire, Former Spirit of Compassion, Trusted Companion of the Inquisitor, Agent of the Inquisition.

* * *

 

It was a busy month.

The elves of the Alienage had moved down into Lowever, filling one of the Barracks and half of another, and had divided into those who were helping House Cadash pull down and then rebuild the Alienage and those that would be going through the fortress of Lowever and repairing what needed to be and clearing what was no longer needed or had rotted away in the years since the Rebellion when Highever had last used Lowever.

Giles had delighted in being moved down to Lowever as he had taken the chance to map out all the twisting tunnels that led to secret doors and passages throughout Highever and even Highever's Castle—as Kenna found out when he decided to pop into her room one night, it didn't go well.

(Lileas screamed, Kenna punched, and Giles spend an hour hidden with a bloody nose under Kenna's bed as both girls reassured everyone that came rushing that they were fine—Mirwen, apparently, had almost laughed herself into tears when Giles had come back to the barracks with bloodied nose and blooming black eyes.)

He had also been gaining the loyalty or at least willingness of the street children as little spies—he had named them little birds with a smirk because of Kenna's personal crest which had made Kenna wonder if she should call herself the Mistress of Whispers for some reason that she couldn't explain.

A room had been cleared out and made up just outside the Cousland family's rooms and been given to a dwarf that Caitlyn claimed as her employee.

Davia Cadash had dark brown hair always pulled back into a messy bun with several quills, pencils and once a ruler stabbed into the bun, and bright golden-brown eyes that gleamed with intelligence. Her hands were almost always stained with ink and covered with small scars and burns, most likely from her work as more than half of her room had been turned into a workshop for her to tinker amongst to her heart's content.

(Kenna only saw two spectres of Davia's future-self before the first faded completely away. She had been older, shoulders burdened, face pulled with stress and eyes almost dulled as something green shone from her left hand, that future-self had been faded and blurry and disappeared completely from Kenna's sight soon after and was replaced with another faded version that seemed to get clearer as the month passed whenever Kenna cared to look. This version was cheerful, shoulders straight and proud under a thick white leather coat with dozens of pockets, a smile curled at her lips and golden-brown eyes gleaming as her hands worked to build something or sometimes she would be writing something down that Kenna didn't see—she much preferred this version of Davia, Kenna had decided, as the first one had almost made her shudder.)

The addition of Davia Cadash to Caitlyn's personal household caused some grumbles, which meant the thirteen-year-old Lady had to conduct interviews for a human handmaiden to shut-up such grumbles—Kenna, as the youngest daughter, was spared such troubles as she was only seven and thus her choices weren't as important as Caitlyn's.

Part way through the month, Lileas began wearing a necklace—a gold chain in the form of laurel leaves that held a egg-shaped dark blue crystal near the hallow of her throat—that caused some gossip, but it was dismissed from peoples' mind when they realised the 'gem' wasn't a precious or semi-precious stone that they could recognise so the rather pretty blue coloured 'gem' was dismissed as glass.

(Mirwen had almost laughed with glee when she watched the 'gem' glow as Lileas used it to focus her magic under Mirwen's delighted and keen eyes in one of the abandoned rooms of Lowever. A week after Lileas had successfully proved that the necklace worked, a member of the Mages' Collective had managed to slip Kenna and Lileas a pouch of coin and a hand-written tome for Lileas to study—it was hidden with the tome that Mirwen had gifted Lileas in the hidden-compartment of Kenna's bed's headboard.)

Before Kenna knew it, the month had passed and the day that her mother had been eagerly awaiting was upon them.

The day Bran was coming home.

* * *

 

~ The Harbour, Highever, 12th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~

The Ravencrest was, in Kenna's opinion, a truly massive ship with three towering masts for the sails and a truly giant raven as a figurehead as it anchored at one of the free docks—it towered over the smaller fishing ships and even some of the merchant ships. The fact that Bran was expected to be the captain of it was rather mind-blogging really.

It was a ship built for war, Kenna realised easily enough. The figurehead was built solidly enough to be used a ram and she could see several ballista affixed to the deck—no doubt the ship had dozens of crossbows and such to pick off sailors of enemy ships.

Kenna watched, fidgeting, as ropes and such were throw down to tie the ship off, and it was only her mother's sharp eyes fixed on her and Fergus' purposely heavy arm around her shoulders that stopped her from dashing up the gangplank as soon as it was lowered.

Kenna wanted to see Bran, to finally meet the brother she didn't really remember, but had dreamt about.

Caitlyn had attempted to describe Brannon to her yesterday, but as soon as she finished explaining that Bran had the same dark hair as Fergus—that Father used to had before his hair started to grey—and that his eyes were Cousland blue—the deepest and brightest blue of the ocean depth—Cait had trailed off, bothered that she couldn't continue to describe him—Cait prided herself on her knowledge before anything else—and realising for the first time that she didn't know how he had changed in the five years he had been gone.

Kenna had quickly realised it hit Cait harder as she had clear memories of their older brother, while Kenna's early memories of Bran was unclear and she only had dreams—the spray of blood across his armour, his arm attempting to bar the door as he turned to speak, Cait's call as she slipped under his arm, their father gutted like an animal, the fire reflecting in his blue gaze, the wry smile of his lips, the look on his face as he watched the dark haired mage walk around—to help her picture what her brother looked like.

"Hard to believe that little Bran is the captain of that," Fergus said, slightly impressed but somewhat baffled.

"I doubt he's that little anymore," Caitlyn mused from the other side of Kenna.

"He'll always be my little brother," Fergus scoffed before grinning at them and purposely flexed his arm to pull Kenna into his side. "Like you will always be my darling little sisters."

"This darling little sister doesn't want to be crushed against your balk," Kenna informed him as she tried to push away from him making him squawk in offense though he didn't even have the courtesy of pretending to move from her force.

"Are you calling me fat?" Fergus asked, his voice absolutely offended, and Kenna grinned up at him as Caitlyn hid a laugh behind one hand.

"Well if the shoe fits," Kenna said, a hint of taunt in her voice.

"You little," Fergus shifted his hold so he could force her into a head-lock making her yelp just before his fist begun to relentless rub against the top of her head.

"Get off!" Kenna yelped as she punched at his side and tried to kick at his legs. "You're hurting me!"

"You called me fat!" Fergus informed her, a hint of glee in his voice. "Accept your punishment!"

"Fergus! Kenna! Really?!" Eleanor called out fondly exasperated despite herself as Caitlyn moved just enough not to be pulled in scuffle between her siblings and kept an amused smile on her face as she watched. "Your brother is going to be here any moment and you decide to fight like two children?"

"To be fair, Kenna is a child," Bryce said to her in an amused undertone that earned him a look from his wife—he immediately wiped all amusement from his face and tried to make his expression stern. "Children, listen to your mother."

Eleanor scoffed, oh yes, that was really going to help.

Fergus let out a yelp as small fingers pinched at his side and tried to shift so his sister couldn't get to his side with her fingers.

"Get off!" Kenna tried to wiggle, wondering if she could get into a position so she could bite—that would stop him, she thought to herself—before she reached up and dug her nails into the arm wrapped around her.

"Ouch!" Fergus tightened his grip warningly as he reached out to pry Kenna's short nails from his arm. "Stop it!" "

Let go then!" Kenna attempted to dig in her nails more—for once in her life envious of Caitlyn's longer nails, if Kenna had nails like Cait then she would really hurt her annoying older brother.

"Well, this is a welcome I wasn't expecting," a dry voice remarked making the two siblings freeze which was followed by an almost booming laugh.

"Bran!" Eleanor called out joyously, reaching forward to pull her son into a hug and Bryce reaches out to clasp his shoulder, smiling broadly.

Hastily, the siblings let go of each other and tried to look like they hadn't been fighting as Caitlyn moved forward to greet her brother and his friend—though the familiar stormy green eyes made her think his friend was more of a cousin.

Kenna scowled as she tried to smooth her hair, ignoring Fergus as he inspected the crescent marks in his arm, and examined her other brother from the corner of her eye.

He looked short next to his friend, but only because his friend was truly massive in height and muscle. But just before he let go of Mother, she could tell he was taller than her before he took Caitlyn in his arms for a welcoming hug as Mother turned to speak with Bran's friend—Cait actually looked almost tiny in Bran's arms, something that made Kenna grimace slightly as Cait was way taller than her and she knew she would look tiny.

His shoulders weren't as board as Fergus, Kenna thought, and his frame was slimmer—a swimmer's build, something in her recognised, and she supposed that made sense for a sailor to have.

The blue he wore was a stormier blue than the rich blue that Cait favoured and the dark blue that Kenna herself favoured, she realised—no doubt Cait would have some thought about that, a meaning behind his choice, that she would tell her later—and the leather he wore was black—his friend wore the same, but with stormy green tunic instead of blue under the black leather jacket that Kenna was certain was also armoured.

There was a hint of a scruff on his face—patchy in the way she had come to recognise of those that were just starting to grow facial hair—and she remembered her dreams with the more defined scruff on more defined features—there was still a hint of chubbiness to his cheeks after all that said he wasn't yet full grown man.

So, she thought to herself, this was her brother.

She wasn't sure if he wasn't what she expected or he was exactly like she expected, and she didn't know if it mattered. He was here, he was Bran, and he was her brother.

"Huh," Fergus was the first of them to speak. "I guess Cait was right, you're not so little anymore."

Bran raised his eyebrows at Fergus in an expression that reminded Kenna strongly of Aldous.

"Imagine that, it's almost like I've grown up since you saw me," Bran's voice was deeper than the voice Kenna just barely remembered, but not yet as deep as the voice he would have, but his dry tone was very familiar and made something in her relax.

"Brat," Fergus laughed, fondly, as he wrapped an arm around Bran's shoulders to tug him into a hug.

"Old man," Bran's lips tilted up into a slight smirk and Fergus flexed his arm threatening around Bran's shoulders.

"Don't start something you can't finish, brat," Fergus warned him, his teeth barred in a grin.

"Don't even think about it," Eleanor said sternly as Bran opened his mouth to retort. "There has already been one fight more than necessary, I will not stand for another one."

"Yes, Mother," both of her sons chorused, and Kenna grinned slightly—that was just like she remembered, she realised.

Fergus let go of Bran, and Kenna realised that it meant it was her turn now.

She couldn't help glancing back towards where Lileas was standing with Rosina and Nan and felt comforted by Lileas' encouraging smile.

* * *

 

Kenna was bigger, was the first inane thought that popped in Bran's head when he first saw the red-headed girl tussling with Fergus, and he almost wanted to scold himself for such a stupid thought.

Of course, she was bigger, she wasn't two-years old anymore, he sharply reminded himself as Fergus let go of him and it was only Kenna to greet him.

Bran felt surprise when he saw the uncertainty in Kenna's duel sea coloured eyes, he had never seen that look on Kenna's face. The toddler in his memory had never had cause for any doubt or simple uncertainty, and something in his chest clenched at being the cause of her doubt.

She glanced away, over her shoulder towards where Nan was standing with two elven girls—Rosina and Lileas Surana, if he remembered correctly—and the younger one—Lileas, he reminded himself—gave his sister an encouraging smile that seemed to settle something in her as Kenna returned her attention to him.

For a moment, the siblings just looked at each other—Bran didn't mind, it let him take in everything that changed in the five years he had been away.

She was still the smallest, Bran realised as he was certain that Cait had been several inches taller than Kenna was when she was that age. The chubbiness of toddler was gone—caused by Nan almost fattening Kenna up—and he could almost see the muscles beginning to be formed under her golden tanned skin—he vaguely wondered how much she burnt before she began to tan.

She had discarded the dresses she used to wear, he thought to himself, as she stood before him comfortably in dark brown trousers and a dark blue tunic—the same shade of blue that her elf friend was wearing—and her copper locks had been braided and wound around her head like a crown—so much more simple the complex braids that Cait had pulled her pale gold hair back into and secured to her head.

This was his sister, his baby sister, and Bran almost didn't recognise her.

Then her jaw set and suddenly he recognised her completely.

She hadn't changed the way she set her jaw so stubbornly, he realised with a surge of affection.

And then her eyes lit up in a familiar way that made him move before he thought about it. Kenna leaped forward and Bran snatched her from the air, pulling her close as he twisted swiftly to keep his balance as she muffled breathless giggles against his neck.

There you are, he thought to himself as he hugged her closely.

Kenna first started throwing herself at him when she learnt to climb the furniture—chubby limbs, butt sticking out and wriggling as she climbed—and in her glee had thrown off with a shout of his name.

He hadn't moved so fast before in his life, his heart had been almost beating out of his chest when he snatched her from the air and held her close as she muffled gleeful and breathless giggles against his neck. He had wanted to shout at her, to shake her, but she had just looked up at him with her uniquely different eyes with totally trust in her gaze—she hadn't once doubted that he would catch her.

"Welcome home," Kenna whispered into his ear, her voice so much lower than he remembered.

"Thank you," Bran pressed a kiss to his sister's copper locks. "I'm home."

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 12th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~

It was strange being home, Bran mused to himself as he leaned back in his seat and enjoyed the sight of Art and his mother talking about Ostwick and what he remembered as well as what he was most looking forward to seeing again—apart from his family—while Cait paused to think of another question to throw at him.

After the welcoming feast, the family—plus two elves and one dwarf—moved to one of the informal family rooms filled with comfortable chairs, divans and low tables.

The dwarf, Davia Cadash according to Cait's introduction, had set herself up beside the fire, pulled out a leather bound note-book and began writing with a pencil she had taken from her bun while muttering to herself.

Cait had gifted the unaware dwarf a fond smile as she sat on the leather divan beside her chair and the elf, Rosina, sat beside her before Cait had turned her blue eyes on to him—the same blue as his, the Cousland blue eyes that they shared with their father, the same blue eyes he had only seen in the mirror for five years—and began quizzing him while Rosina pulled out some sewing to do quietly as her Lady grilled her brother about his time away and what he didn't put in their short letters.

Father and Fergus had sat down across from a small table as they began to speak about how work was going—the fact that Fergus was part of the City Guard still surprised Bran when he thought about it—and he wasn't sure what Kenna had decided to do with her elf friend.

A sudden loud yawn caught his attention and he glanced to see Kenna stumble to her feet, obviously tired, and he smiled slightly as he wondered just how she curled up on Mother's lap now she was so big.

He was so certain that she would still go to Mother when she was tired, that he was caught off guard when Kenna stumbled passed where Mother was sitting without stopping and instead made a bee-line for Fergus.

"Sleepy, huh?" Fergus chuckled as Kenna didn't hesitate to curl up in his lap, pressing her face against his neck as his arms wrapped around her securely. "Bedtime for you, and little elves too."

Lileas hide a yawn behind one pale hand from where she had paused beside Fergus, having followed her Lady with a dragging gait.

"Don't let her go to sleep yet," Cait called out as she almost hurriedly stood, a trace of alarm in her blue eyes making Bran's gaze snap to her—what was going on? "She hasn't had her tea."

"Here, my Lady," Rosina interrupted as she held out a small silver flask that she had just fished out of one of her hidden pockets.

A look of relief flashed—why? —across Caitlyn's face as she reached out for it before she hurried over to Kenna, flask clasped tight in her hand.

"Drink this, Little Bird," Caitlyn murmured, and Kenna made a face as she pulled away from Fergus. "You know better."

Cait's voice was gentle, a hint of reproach in her tone, and Kenna didn't argue as she began sipping from the flask though a small look of surprise and sleepy confusion spread across her face after the first sip.

"It's warm," Kenna frowned as Cait kept encouraging her to drink it all.

"It's an enchanted flask, Lady Kenna," Rosina informed her with a slight smile, an echo of worry in her pale green eyes—not as strong as Cait's, but still there, but why? Bran asked himself in frustration.

Kenna hummed as she finished drinking, pushing the flask into Cait's hand and burying herself back into Fergus without second thought making his older brother to chuckle—Why didn't she go to Mother? Why Fergus? What happened?

"I guess I should put these two to bed before Nan comes looking," Fergus grinned as he shifted his hold of Kenna and stood easily with her now perched on his hip—there was an ease to his movements, a familiarity that told Bran that this had happened before. "Come on, little Lily."

Lileas yawned again as she reached out for Fergus' out-stretched hand and let him tug her along.

"You should have spoken up," Fergus clicked his tongue as he chided the young elf, his voice soft but firm. "You know how stubborn Kenna gets."

"Sorry," Lileas leaned against Fergus' arm as they left the room.

Caitlyn straightened up with a slightly sigh as she capped the flask.

"Thank you, Rosina," Cait told her, relief in her blue eyes as she handed the flask back. "I can't believe I forgot.." Caitlyn shook her head almost angrily at herself—What did it matter if Kenna didn't drink some tea? "Where did you get that?"

"I got it for her," Davia pipped up without looking up from her writing. "Thought it may be needed in the future," she hummed slightly to herself, "didn't expected it to be needed so soon though."

"Thank you, both of you," Caitlyn told him before she met his eyes, a firm expression settling on her face as one golden brow arched at him.

 _I told you things had changed_ , that look told him and he scowled at her slightly—yes, things may have changed, but she hadn't given him any reasons behind those changes.

All Bran could guess, it all had to do with Kenna, and Bran wanted to know just what it was—damn it, Kenna was his sister too!

"I'm tired," Cait said after a moment of silently staring at him, reading the questions in his eyes and deciding to ignore him—but she couldn't ignore him forever, he thought to himself. "Goodnight,"

"Goodnight, Caitlyn," his parents told her, Art echoing them in a rather bemused tone a moment later as Davia stood and tucked her book in her pocket and her pencil back into her bun.

"Goodnight," Bran said after a moment, stare burning against the stubborn planes of his sister's face.

 _You will explain_ , he told her with his stare and her chin tilted slightly as her lip curled back in something that could be called a snarl, but some could easily pretend to see as a smile.

 _No_ , she told him without words before she turned and left with her elven lady-in-waiting and dwarven whatever—Cait had simply claimed Davia Cadash as hers during her introduction—with a swish of her deep blue skirt.

There was an air of awkwardness that made Art shift uncomfortably as Bran gritted his teeth at Caitlyn's wordless dismissal of him, her refusal to share.

"I think we should all go to bed," Father spoke up in the stilted silence. "It has been an exciting day after all."

"Yes," Mother stood, smoothing her dress and plastering a smile on her lips to hide how the awkwardness had affected her—she hadn't been surprised by Kenna's actions, Bran remembered, she hadn't expected her precious youngest to come to her like she used to and Bran burned with questions, with worry, and it felt bitter that he had to swallow them down.

"I will show you to your room, Arthyen." Art glanced toward Bran, worry clear in his stormy green eyes, before he nodded to Eleanor.

"Thank you, Auntie," Art spoke softly as he stood. "

Bran?" Mother turned to him and Bran got to his feet.

"Sleep sounds good," Bran agreed, biting back bitter questions and swells of emotions.


	10. Chapter Ten

_‘Common ground is the start of all negotiations.’_ –Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva, Ambassador of the Inquisition, Chief Diplomat of the Inquisition.

* * *

 

She was being foolish, Caitlyn acknowledged to herself as she hasted through the halls with Rosina and Davia on her heels.

It had been going so well, she reflected almost mournfully, and that had made her become lax in her duties, had aroused Bran’s suspicion, and had risked Kenna.

She groaned as she came to a stop and leaned back against the wall, fingers reaching up to tangle in her blonde hair, tugging it in frustration.

“My lady?” Rosina inquired in concern, but Cait ignored her as she sunk into her thoughts.

For a moment, Caitlyn acknowledged with a twist of self-disgust, she had looked at Bran as an enemy.

For a moment she didn’t see her brother, the brother she had hugged and sent off with a watery smile, the brother she had exchanged letters with for five years, but a stranger with familiar eyes that was suspicious of her sister, of her Kenna, and was demanding answers for questions he had no right asking.

She had seen _her own_ brother as a threat against _their_ sister.

What was wrong with her? Fergus would be so disappointed if he found out, and she had made things worst. He would now be more suspicious of Kenna, and more focused on finding out the truth.

A truth that neither Caitlyn nor Fergus had readily talked about outside themselves—not even Rosina knew.

A warm weight leaned against her, breaking her from her thoughts.

“Family’s hard, aren’t they?” Davia asked almost sympathetically without looking up, only resting some of her weight against Cait in an attempt to ground her away from her swirling thoughts.

Caitlyn felt her heart swell with sudden affection for Davia and let herself slump slightly in a way she didn’t normally allow herself to.

“Yes,” Caitlyn sighed as she leaned back her head, her hands sliding down from holding her head.

“But they are worth it,” Rosina reminded her simply, softly, as she leaned on the other side of her.

“I know,” Cait sighed once again. “I’ll apologise in the morning.”

Neither of them said anything; they didn’t say that of course she should apologise for being out of line nor did they wave it off as something she didn’t need to apologise for, no they just listened and let her make her own decision about what to do—something she was very grateful for.

“Thank you,” Caitlyn said after a moment making Rosina look at her with an understanding smile while Davia just nodded.

“Bed now,” Davia decided as she pushed away from both Cait and the wall, raising her hand in a slightly wave as she began to walk. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Davia,” Caitlyn smiled at the dwarf’s retreating back with Rosina echoing her sentiment.

She glanced towards her lady-in-waiting then to see Rosina patiently waiting beside her, leaning her shoulder against the wall so she could look at Caitlyn without turning her head.

When did the nervous tension go? Caitlyn almost absently wondered to herself, though she wasn’t sad to see it go. However, she had been certain it would take Rosina much longer to settle into her role, but it seemed she was wrong about that.

“I was being silly, wasn’t I?” she asked, trying not to sigh again—she didn’t want to make sighing into a habit.

“You were protecting your child,” Rosina shrugged slightly, an understanding smile on her lips. “I can understand that impulse.”

“Kenna’s not my child,” Cait retorted and Rosina just raised her eyebrows.

“And Lileas’ not mine,” the strawberry haired elf countered, “but I have taken care of her like I was her mother, just as you have taken over your mother’s duties.”

“That…” Caitlyn wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t true, but instead she found herself looking away. “Kenna is my mother’s precious youngest.”

“And she’s your precious child too,” Rosina said without a doubt, without hesitation, and Caitlyn leaned back against the wall.

 _How did things end up like this?_ Cait asked herself mentally, _how could I have taken something so precious from my own mother without realising it?_

( _Kenna was sobbing, crying and hiccupping so hard, and Mother reached out to soothe her, hands gently and loving, but Kenna just sobbed harder, turning away from Mother’s worry as hands reached up to muffle her own cries, and Caitlyn can’t stand back, she can’t just watch this and do nothing._

_She stepped forward, hesitating as she reached out—will Kenna scream like she did when Father reached out? Would she turn away and cry harder like when Mother tried? –and teary dual coloured eyes locked onto her._

_“Cait!” it was a whimpering whine, the first word that Kenna had spoken since she had woken up, and she didn’t hesitate anymore._

_She climbed onto the bed and pulled her sister close, pushing her copper-locked head into crook of her neck as she rubbed a comforting hand against her sweaty back._

_“Shh, I’ve got you,” Caitlyn soothed, pulling on a sense of calm in the hopes that would further soothe her. “Shh, I won’t let anything hurt you.”_

_So occupied with soothing Kenna, Cait didn’t see the look of hurt that had flashed across their mother’s face when Kenna accepted Caitlyn’s comfort and not hers. She didn’t realise that part of their mother’s heart broke just then nor that it would continue to as Kenna refused her and turned to Cait._ )

“Yes, she is,” Caitlyn almost breathed out the damning words, the painful realisation that she had come to.

 _I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t realise_ , she thought silently as she decided to finally make her way to her bed like she had first declared she was doing.

But if Caitlyn was being truly honest with herself, she didn’t think she would have changed any of her actions even if she was aware of what she was doing.

Kenna had needed her and that was it.

* * *

 

Fergus grinned as Kenna immediately turned to the side where Lileas’ bed was and curled up with one hand dangling over the edge.

A slim pale hand reached up and entangled with a more golden coloured hand almost without thought as Lileas yawned and snuggled deeper into her bed, already more asleep than awake.

It was cute, Fergus acknowledged, the way that Kenna and Lileas often went to sleep holding the other’s hand.

Nan had informed him that she had often gone to wake them up with Kenna and Lileas still holding hands or Kenna’s fingers had somehow found their way to rest on Lileas’ pale hair, a stray pale lock tangling its way around a slim golden finger.

He pulled the covers tightly over Kenna, making sure to cover her shoulders as she always complained they were cold if they weren’t covered, and checking to make sure that Lileas had covered herself properly in her sleepiness before he turned to leave.

Sleep sounded good, he thought to himself as he made sure the glow-lamp was off and he closed the door behind him with the softs of squeaks and thuds.

Should he go to bed himself or should he go back to the others, he debated to himself just before Caitlyn came through the door with Rosina—as always—on her heels.

“Turning in?” he asked as he muffled a yawn behind his hand, pleased that it looked like he wouldn’t have to trudge back to the others.

“Yes,” Caitlyn replied, a strange note to her tone that made him look at her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly in concern as he took in the strange expression on Cait’s face, the way her blonde hair was messed as if she had pulled on it from the way her braids had loosened.

Cait hesitated and his eyes narrowed more—Cait never hesitated, not really, she calculated in a way that would make her a fearsome Lady in her own right if she had been born as the eldest and would still serve her well when she married and took control from her husband because Cait would never be a meek submissive wife.

“Bran is suspicious,” she finally stated, and he felt himself relax slightly—he had been expecting that.

“Of course, he is,” Fergus scoffed as he roughly scrubbed at his bearded jaw. “Things have changed, and he doesn’t know why.”

“He’s suspicious about Kenna,” she continued with a slightly annoyed tone as if he couldn’t understand what was so bad about Bran being suspicious. “And I don’t know what to say to him.”

Fergus’s gaze flickered to the door as one of Rosina’s ears seem to twitch slightly, before he turned his gaze back to Cait with a bitten back sigh.

“You have time,” he told her, a hint of a smirk on his face. “Don’t you remember how Bran likes to just watch and listen before he says anything? He may think about demanding answers, but he won’t do anything without getting his head around what he wants to ask and trying to figure things out by himself—he’s stubborn like that.”

“Like we’re not stubborn?” Cait asked with a hint of a smile and Fergus let himself relax fully, glad she was in a better mood now.

“We’re all stubborn here,” he grinned at her, pleased that whatever else was bothering her seemed to have lessened.

“True,” Cait allowed, her lips curling into a fond and amused smile—a real smile and not the pretty smile she used to get her way.

“You should get some sleep,” Fergus told her firmly, “and try not to worry about Bran, alright? Trust me when I say everything will work out.”

“Of course, I trust you,” Caitlyn told him without hesitating as she reached up to rub the back of her neck with a slightly pained look—tension pain, he guessed—making Rosina twitch forward slightly—no doubt she’ll put on of pain-soothing tea for Cait before they slept. “And you are right, I should sleep. Goodnight, Fergus.”

“Goodnight, Cait,” Fergus flashed a grin towards the elf, “goodnight, Rosina.”

“Goodnight, Lord Fergus,” Rosina inclined her head as she and Cait headed towards their shared room.

Fergus waited till his sister’s door closed firmly before he turned his gaze back to the partly opened door.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Bran,” Fergus called out softly, a chiding look on his face as Bran carefully slipped into the large hallway.

“So is interrupting a conversation,” Bran retorted dryly as he glanced over to the side where their sisters’ doors lay shut.

“True,” Fergus laughed lightly, his stormy green eyes sharp, “I guess I can see the difficulty, but I think we’d both know that you’d eavesdrop anyway.”

Bran didn’t deny it, and Fergus smiled, a light smile that didn’t do anything to hide the sharpness of his gaze—Bran wondered if they had always been sharp or had they got that way from his stint as a Guardsman? He didn’t know, something that annoyed him slightly.

“So, you’re going to look at me like an enemy too,” Bran sighed deeply, looking almost pained, and Fergus cocked his brows at his brother.

“An enemy?” Fergus replied in some bemusement. “Is that how you think I’m looking at you?”

“Isn’t it?” Bran challenged him, a hint of anger slipping into his tone, and Fergus grinned at him with a slight shake of his head.

“Don’t be stupid,” Fergus told him without hesitation, almost roughly. “You’re my brother, my only brother, and I love you—nothing will change that. We just have to get used to each other again, don’t we?”

Some tension seemed to leech from Bran’s shoulders and Fergus watched as a sense of tiredness came upon him and made his shoulders slump.

“What’s going on, Fergus?” Bran sighed as he rubbed at his rough scruff—huh, a shared gesture despite them being apart from so long, Fergus thought to himself.

“Lots of things, Little Brother,” Fergus retorted, “too much to go into this late at night, so let’s sleep, yeah?” Fergus paused as he made to turn and pinned Bran in place. “Oh yeah, and whatever questions you have? Bring them to me, okay? Let’s not trouble our little sisters over it all, yeah?”

“Okay,” Bran replied after a long moment and Fergus grinned at him, that same easy grin that he remembered.

“Goodnight then,” Fergus said lightly as he moved towards his door.

“Goodnight,” Bran almost sighed as he rubbed at his jaw.

There’s no place like home? He thought to himself with some dry amusement as he turned to his own door.

“Welcome home, Bran,” he muttered to himself mockingly.

* * *

 

_The moon bares down upon the ruins, a silent witness to it all._

_A man in rough leathers lay out unmoving on the stone floor, moonlight making the foamy blood on his lips and the blood coming his nose glisten dangerously, his face was twisted into an enteral expression of pain— **he was brave, he was determined, he didn’t hesitate.**_

_Another man in metal armour sat slumped against a broken wall, blood pooled under him and his mouth still open in silent protest with his sword laying discarded next to him— **fear cut deeper to his heart than the blade that felled him.** _

_An older man stood with a silver chalice held in both hands, his armour personalised but still unmistakable that of a Grey Warden. No silver had yet to touch his dark hair though wrinkles had started to form around his eyes and mouth— **she knew him, but she didn’t know how, she hadn’t dreamt him, not until now, but she knew him and she almost hated him, how dare he! seeps through her mind as anger tried tear at her sleeping mind.** _

_“Which one of you will take this final step first?” he asked calmly, softly, seemingly unmoved by the two deaths already witnessed— **one death by his hand directly, he hadn’t yet wiped the Knight’s blood from his sword.** _

_Three men stood before him, from different paths of life, and behind them stood three Wardens._

_The man on the right took a step forward, expression fierce under the twisting and bold dark lines of his tattoo that marked him as a Dalish._

_He reached out a trembling hand towards the chalice, black veins visible through skin the colour of milky tea as a dark poison lurked through his blood— **he had gotten worse since Highever, his limbs starting to disobey him as poison burnt through him, tainting everything as it ran rampant through him, hold back only by Ci—‘s magic as it tried to burn away the taint, to contain it, it was almost too much, he couldn’t last much longer, he didn’t care if it killed him, it needed to end, she knew that but she didn’t know how.** _

_The Warden behind him was the only woman of the group and the only other elf; dark of skin, wine red hair cropped very short accept from the crown of her head where the long strands was swept to the side, and golden almost cat-like eyes that watched closely as her Commander helped the Dalish take the damning sip from the chalice— **she had dreamt of her before, of blood-stained wedding gowns, of swords held in dark graceful hands, of swift steps and blood running through the halls, of whimpers and pleas for home, of rage and grief and hatred as she takes their fucking heads for their sins.** _

_A gasp pulled from the Dalish’s lips as his hazel eyes rolled up and he collapsed into the waiting arms of the Warden. She carefully lowered him to the stone ground, brushing stray strands of dark hair out of his face almost absently._

_“Welcome, Ar—,” the Commander intoned before turning to the next man._

_He was still dressed in the robes of the Circle of Magi, dark of hair and with a carefully groomed beard— **was there any traces of her father’s blood still on his hands? Did he still think about his futile attempts to save her father?** _

_Behind him stood the only dwarf of the group; blue eyes— **like sapphires, hard and almost flat from hidden emotion** —watched carefully, dark blonde long hair pulled into a small knot at the back of his head, his dark blonde beard was cropped short and there was no tattoos visible on his face or ornaments anywhere denoting his rank— **but he stands like a noble, like a warrior noble, straight back, shoulders back, proud and contained, and his armour was well maintained and worn with ease.** _

_“This isn’t as much like the Harrowing as you led me to believe,” he almost muttered to the Commander as he reached out with his olive-toned hands. “Bottoms up, huh?”_

_He took a sip and coughed slightly, grimacing before blue eyes— **blue like the sky, not like the sea tones she was used to, sky eyes she had seen look at her mother with regret and hopelessness** —rolled back and he fell back into the waiting arms of the dwarf who didn’t even grunt had the sudden weight of the much taller man._

_“Welcome, Ci—,” the Commander intoned before he turned to the last man._

_Bran didn’t flinch away from the Commander’s dark gaze, meeting it firmly with a glare of his own._

_“My sisters will be safe no matter what?” Bran asked, not yet reaching out for the chalice that would mark the end of his previous life— **it would bar him from the Sea that was as part of him as the blood in his veins, the part that he had willingly given up, clawing it out of himself with bloody hands and a dutiful look, a solemn promise of safety his only request.** _

_“You have my word,” the Commander told him solemnly._

_Bran stared at him for a long silent moment, judging him and his words’ worth, before he reached out for the chalice._

_“Fortune favours the bold,” Bran murmured almost to himself before he took a sip— **damning him, cursing him to the Land and away from the Sea, until Death took him.** _

_He grimaced at the taste as the Commander took the chalice away and his blue— **like Father’s had been, like Cait’s eyes** —eyes rolled back as he fell back into the waiting arms of the last Warden. _

_Short dark blonde hair— **Cait will run her fingers through those locks** —dark brown eyes— **that will look at Cait with such love, his mother’s eyes something in her whispers** —and the slightest hint of scruff covering a familiar jawline— **Cait will cup that jaw as she presses kisses to those lips, she knows that jaw, she knows that curve of the cheek, she knows that nose, where has she seen those things? Or perhaps she didn’t know those things, at least not yet.**_

_He was shorter than Bran— **but still taller than Cait, he will stand tall before her, protecting her, he will willingly drop to his knees before her** —but boarder in the shoulders and seemed to have no problem lowering him carefully to the floor. _

_“Welcome, Brannon,” the Commander intoned as other Wardens moved into the ruin to take away the bodies of the two men that had failed and remove all sign of them being there— **their names would only live on in the memory of those that had witnessed their deaths, not her memory though, she’ll know their faces but not their names unless she meets them.**_

_“Two more deaths,” he sighed deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck and stepped away from Bran. “During our Joining, there was only one.”_

_“There may have been only one if the Knight kept his nerve,” the dwarf grunted almost dismissively before he glanced to his Warden-sister. “What are you doing, Sir—?”_

_“Look,” she held up the Dalish’s arm, turning it so the moonlight showed the dark veins under milky-tea coloured skin. “They are already going.”_

_True to her words, the black veins were slowly fading under their gazes— **the poison being absorbed by what he willing ingested, becoming a part of him, changing him**. _

_“I thought he would keel over dead before the Joining,” she almost mused to herself then to her Warden-brothers. “I guess he truly is a survivor.”_

_Dark fingers brushed the thin skin of the Dalish’s wrist, a smile curling her lip as she watched all sign of corruption fade from him— **it will remain hidden under his skin, like it does for all Wardens, like the corruption in her brother’s veins, the corruption he willing took to protect them.**_

* * *

 

Kenna wakes up, gasping for breath as her heart raced, and pushed her covers back as she sat up, curling over as her hands gripped her head, sweaty copper locks sticking to her fingers.

Her dreams had changed, _her dreams had changed_ , oh Maker, **her dreams had changed**.

Kenna had a mad desire to laugh, or cry, and had to mentally wrestle some self-control as she tried to calm her panic.

Logic, she had had to think logically like Cait, but how could she? Her dreams had changed!

She let out a sob almost without meaning to, and quickly moves her hands over her mouth as tears burn down her cheeks.

Why had they changed? Why? Oh Maker, they had changed, and she didn’t know why!

She wanted Cait! She wanted Fergus! She—

Rustles from Lileas’ bed made her head shot up and in the dark she could just make out the gleam of Lileas’ pale green eyes.

“Ken—?” Lileas cut herself off, her elven eyes allowing her to see much more than Kenna’s in the dark, and she didn’t bother with talking as she clambered up on the bed and pulled Kenna close, tucking her teary face into the side of Lileas’ pale throat—just like Cait did as if they were attempting to stop Kenna from seeing anything, from seeing her dreams unfold in front of her eyes again now she was awake—and held her tight. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you, I’ll protect you, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Kenna let out a wet laugh, clinging tightly to her friend, as she remembered almost saying the same things to Lileas when she cried and Cait had spoke of things like that the first time she soothed Kenna from her dreams.

Kenna shook, hands twisting the back of Lileas’ nightgown, and tried not to dissolve into sobs.

It was so stupid, so silly, why was she crying? It wasn’t like Bran had died in her dreams, she hadn’t seen anyone die! But she was crying, she was panicking, because they had changed, her dreams had changed, she was able to think in them in a way she hadn’t before!

Cait’s tea had allowed her to almost disconnect herself from the feel of the dreams so it couldn’t be her drinking the tea late! But she didn’t know why this had happened and it scared her.

What if her dreams continued to change? What if her weird foresight became stronger? What if it became more than dreams and future-phantoms that she could push away?

She didn’t want this!! Why was this happening?! Why wouldn’t they just stop?!


	11. Chapter Eleven

_‘I do nothing that is not worth doing with all my heart.’_ –Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine and Agent of the Inquisition.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 13th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~

Nan felt something in her chest twist as she stared at the girls entwined on the bed.

She knew that position; a face buried into a pale neck to block out the world around her and the images in her head, a white-knuckled grip on the back of the nightgown to ground her in the now, pale fingers entwined in copper locks and cupped the back of her head, a protective arm wrapped around the waist.

The only thing different about it was the fact it was Lileas and not Caitlyn that was comforting Kenna in that position—and perhaps the fact that Kenna wasn’t four-years old anymore.

There was an echo—a memory—of a scream building in the back of her mind; a terrified, painfilled scream full of dread. A scream that no child—especially not one of her chargers, not one of her children—should utter, a scream that she hadn’t heard since the Rebellion when the Orlais bastards ruled over them and hunted down any of those still loyal to the Theirin bloodline—which was anyone with a shred of dignity and honour in them in her opinion.

It was a scream she hadn’t heard for years, not since Caitlyn had got her tea right and Kenna began drinking it every night.

Nan supposed she should feel grateful that she hadn’t heard that damning scream in the night despite the fact it was more than obvious that her dreams had returned with a vengeance.

Yet still not as bad as before, she firmly reminded herself with mild self-disgust as she walked over, cocking her head slightly as she took in the lingering puffiness of the visible part of her charge’s face—she had been crying, hopefully not the full on sobs that choked her as she attempted to muffle them.

A pale green eye slid open under her gaze, arm flexing around Kenna’s waist and her hand firming on the back of Kenna’s copper head—a protective gesture, Nan noticed, it felt strange that it was Lileas making the protective gesture for once instead of Kenna.

“I will let the others know that you will not be having lessons today,” Nan told the elf gruffly, but quietly. “If I see that brat skulking around, I send him off to Ser Kenneth—let him deal with the little brat for the day.”

“Thank you, Nan,” Lileas’ voice was as quiet as ever—soft in a way that Kenna wasn’t—but was filled with a sense of quiet confidence that made Nan’s brow arch in mild curiosity—had this…..relapse help the little elf feel more secure at Kenna’s side? How odd.

“Sleep,” Nan ordered almost sharply as she turned to leave, glancing over her shoulder when she heard a sleepy and mildly distressed noise come from her charge.

“Shhh, I’m here,” Lileas hushed as she pulled Kenna closer. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Kenna’s grip on the back of Lileas’ nightgown tightened before relaxing slightly as she was pulled back into a deeper sleep—away from reality, away from her dreams.

Lileas hummed slightly, almost tunelessly, as she closed her eyes and relaxed—she didn’t fall back to sleep, Nan noticed, and she suspected the little elf wouldn’t until she was convinced that Kenna had been soothed properly.

It didn’t matter though, Nan reminded herself sharply as she had duties to do—like making sure her older charges didn’t whip themselves into a worried frenzy and direct a certain Knight towards a certain troublesome brat that seemed determined to find every last hidden passageway in the Castle.

Kenna—for today at least, she grudgingly allowed—was in safe hands.

* * *

 

_Long dark red wine hair was pulled back as small dark hands carefully adjusted her grip under patient golden eyes._

_“That’s it, Sir—,” the woman spoke with a proud smile— **her mother that she took most of her looks from though the redness of her hair came from her father, her mother that she loved and looked up to, her mother that taught her everything she could, her mother that was going to die by human hands**. “Just like that, now, do you remember the stances I showed you before?” _

_“Yes, Mama,” Sir— grinned, golden eyes flashing— **golden eyes flashing in rage, in disgust, as he dared attempt to buy her off, attempted to use coin to blind her to the fact that her cousin was laying on the floor with her dress a mess and tears on her face, golden eyes flashed as blades lashed out, how dare he?! How dare he?! More blood stained her dress, a trembling hand reached out as her cousin’s normally brash voice waveringly asked to go home**. _

_Sir— shifted, moving into almost flowing stances enhanced by the blades she held in her hands— **they leered at her, they were going to beat her down and touch her, but So— came and he gave her a weapon, they felt fear fill them as she held the blade with ease, they felt fear when she cut them down, she would make them regret standing by and allowing this to happen, she would make them regret helping that monster with his sick enjoyment, she would kill them all, she would make them regret it, and she would not regret this.**_

* * *

 

Bran was brooding, though Art would argue that he was sulking.

Things hadn’t turned out like he had expected them, Art figured, and things were more different than he expected so he was sulking.

Which meant as his best friend/cousin/first mate, Art would have to keep away any well-meaning family members while Bran figured out his thoughts and feelings—something he was actually quite used to.

It was different doing here in Highever, Art thought to himself, as it was both easier and harder—easier in the terms there was less people (family) that would tease or bother Bran if they noticed and harder because Art didn’t know these family members like he knew his cousins and such back on the Storm Coast.

Aunt Eleanor was rather easy to distract from her son’s sulking as she was happy enough to hear all the little stories that Art could remember from growing up in Ostwick and any scrap of memories he had about his mother—Art was certain that Aunt Eleanor rather missed his mother and wondered if he should mention the possibility of a visit when he and Bran visited Ostwick.

Uncle Bryce didn’t need distracting, he had greeted Bran happily enough before he turned his attention to his breakfast and the few letters that had been placed beside his plate—though by the smile on his face and how his head was tilted towards Aunt Eleanor, Art was certain that he was also listening to what Art was saying and was happy about the happiness clear in his wife’s voice as she asked questions.

Fergus had come striding into the hall dressed as a City-Guard—the fact that Uncle Bryce allowed his heir to be a common City-Guard still shocked Art somewhat as he couldn’t picture his own father allowing Lorcan to become a Guard—and yawning slightly before he took his chair and tilted it so he was facing one of the long tables and could chat to the group of soldiers and Knights while he ate his breakfast—he didn’t do more than glance towards Bran’s sulking position before he sat down.

Caitlyn had come into the Hall flanked by Davia Cadash and Rosina Surana—if Art remembered their introductions right—in a dress that while very pretty, Art was almost certain was also properly armoured—and not just decoratively armoured despite the golden and silver roses and laurel leaves on what was unmistakeably an actual breast-plate.

(He didn’t even know armoured dresses were a thing, though he was certain that his sisters would enjoy learning it was a thing and would start wearing it, especially Melwyn if she was still into becoming a Templar like she had been talking about before he left—though Father didn’t seem impressed with the idea of allowing one of his precious daughters to enter the Templar Order despite the close-ties the family had to both the Order and Chantry as a whole.)

However, when they sat, they didn’t sit flanking Caitlyn, but Davia Cadash which he thought was rather odd, until he noticed that Davia seemed to completely missed the fact it was breakfast as she immediately pulled out her notebook and took a pencil from her bun and was way with writing something.

Rosina in between eating her own breakfast would push a slice of fruit or a piece of bread to Davia’s lips, which the dwarf would absently eat without looking up or pausing in her writing.

A fond smile would curl at the edges of the elf’s own lips in response.

Caitlyn had glanced over a small pile of letters that had been placed by her plate before she began eating her breakfast, glancing over at what Davia was writing and sometimes nicking one of the pencils in Davia’s bun to jot down her own note in Davia’s notebook.

Davia, unlike what Art had expected, didn’t seem put out by Caitlyn’s actions as she would pause, read what Caitlyn had written with a frown before nodding with a thoughtful look before she continue her writing, perhaps using whatever Caitlyn had written in her work?

It was fascinating really to watch, and he almost wanted to know what Davia was so focused on, but he had a duty to carry out—Bran owed him for this, again may he add.

There was two empty seats at the main table for Kenna and Lileas—Rosina’s younger sister with almost snowy blonde hair instead of the strawberry blonde of her elder sister, but both sharing the same pale green eyes that trailed behind Kenna more often than not from what Art had noticed yesterday.

“Where’s Kenna?” Bran abruptly asked, blue eyes—Cousland blue, Art had come to recognise—piercing as he looked up.

Art tensed, worried that the strange tension would appear like it had last night, and Caitlyn and Fergus exchanged looks across the table.

“She should be up by now,” Caitlyn frowned slightly, concern clear in her gaze as she looked at the empty chairs and the untouched dishes.

“Yesterday was an exciting day,” Uncle Bryce cut in, reaching out for Aunt Eleanor’s hand though he kept his gaze on his daughter. “Perhaps Nan allowed her to sleep in?”

 _Speaking of the demon, and they shall appear_ , Art thought to himself as he caught sight of Nan striding into the Hall with a scowl creasing her features.

Her face seemed to tighten as she noticed the attention of the main table was directed at her, but she ignored them as she headed first to an elder man in scholar robes, she leaned down to whisper something to him that made him frown slightly and nod, before she strode towards where the Guards and Knights were surrounding Commander Ser Kenneth Nolan.

Ser Kenneth actually scowled as he listened to what Nan whispered to him, before he nodded firmly and stood—showing off his truly massive size that almost matched Art’s grandfather.

“Fergus!” Ser Kenneth almost thundered in his naturally booming voice. “Don’t you have a job to get to?”

Fergus had stilled, a calculating light to his eyes that remembered Art strongly of Bran, before he let a thin smile curl at his lips—ah, Art thought almost absently, they had the same smile when unhappy.

“Oh, am I going to be late?” Fergus asked lightly, his voice pitched to carry easily, and he stood in one easy movement. “I best get going then, unless something is wrong?”

Nan pursed her lips, but Kenneth didn’t even blink under Fergus’ look.

“Job, boy,” Ser Kenneth repeated firmly, and Fergus’ eyes narrowed before he nodded sharply and left with almost stomping footsteps—almost, somehow Fergus had stopped himself from fall-out stomping like an irate child despite the fact Art suspected he would dearly love to.

Ser Kenneth watched him go before nodding almost shortly at Nan;

“I will keep an eye out for the brat,” he informed her before bowing his head slightly towards the main table and leaving with actual stomping footsteps—though that was the actual sound of his footsteps and not out of any emotional distress—with several Guards and soldiers following him.

“Nan?” Caitlyn asked almost sharply, blue eyes focused on her old nanny.

“Kenna is taking a rest day,” Nan spoke after a moment, “too much excitement for her yesterday.”

 _Lie_ , Art noted mentally as he took a sip of his drink and both Bran and Caitlyn frowned.

“I told you,” Uncle Bryce kept an almost forced light tone.

 _Well, things had taken another curious turn_ , Art acknowledged to himself.

* * *

 

_“Well done, Ci—,” an older mage spoke as he clasped a proud hand on Ci—‘s small shoulder as he leaned forward to peer at the pale scar left on pale skin— **he was proud, and he would be still be proud, but grieved when Ci— would have to leave**. “What do you think, Wy—? Doesn’t he have great potential?” _

_“Bragging about your student again, Irv—?” Wy— chuckled as she walked over to the ‘test subject’ and reached out with gentle hands to hold the previously injured arm. “Any lingering pain?”_

_“No,” the bland and calm tone of the Tranquil answered as he looked with detached curiosity at his own arm— **a tone she never wanted to hear leave Lileas’ lips, a brand she never wanted to see blazed on Lileas’ pale forehead**. “Ci— numbed it before he healed—it was quite an interesting experience.” _

_“Did he now?” blue-grey eyes glanced at the young mage, a spark of greater interest in Wy—‘s eyes. “Most don’t bother with that when they heal, you know?”_

_“But why leave them in pain when I can do something?” he asked, confusion on his young face— **he was compassionate, was it compassion that would drive him to place his hands on a wound he couldn’t heal, would it be compassion that made him numb the pain as her father spoke his last goodbyes? Would that compassion haunt him? Was it his compassionate nature that would draw Bran’s gaze to him? Was it compassion that drove him to break those rules? To aid in such a stupid plan? To not see the truth until the blood flowed and the Templars fell, when everything he had every achieved was going to be stripped from him?** _

_“Sometimes the pain is good,” Wy— informed him, “letting them feel it will help you make sure you haven’t done something wrong, do you understand?”_

_“Yes, Enchanter,” he nodded, but there was a glint of stubbornness in his sky-blue gaze— **a stubborn compassion that would cause his downfall, that would make him have to leave everything he knew and reach out for a silver chalice, damning himself like Bran would damn himself for them.**_

* * *

 

Giles didn’t even have time to do more than yelp before a massive hand was clamped down on the back of the neck and dragged him through the halls of Highever.

“What the fuck?” Giles spluttered as he attempted to squirm away.

“You’re late,” a deep voice informed him bluntly and Giles twisted until he saw it was Ser Kenneth Nolan that had captured him—Boss’ teacher/trainer and Commander of Highever’s Land Forces.

“What do you mean?” Giles almost wanted to snarl as he used his right hand to claw at the hand that was dragging him along though the older man didn’t even flinch or twitch from the way Giles dug his nails in.

“A month, a month you’ve been hanging around my student,” Ser Kenneth told him, “and you haven’t once shown your face.”

“For what?” Giles tried to dig his feet into the unrelenting stone under him.

“Training,” Ser Kenneth informed him bluntly, seemingly unbothered by the boy’s squirming like a kitten in its’ mother’s grasp.

“I’m not exactly the fighting type,” Giles flung up his disformed left hand and really wished he could glare at the brute dragging him along.

“You have one good hand and two good legs,” Ser Kenneth pointed out flatly, “using one shitty hand as an excuse, you’re just being lazy.”

“Fuck you!” the boy snapped, temper completely lost as he hissed. “I’m not lazy!”

“Good,” Ser Kenneth rumbled in almost approval. “Let’s hope for your sake that you prove it.”

* * *

 

_The Dining Hall was filled with Wardens— **filled with dead men and women, with people that had taken in the tainted blood and damned themselves, men and women that would die fighting and be branded as traitors in death** —as they ate, forks and spoons scrapping against their plates or bowls. _

_One of the Wardens— **a new recruit, taint still fresh in his blood** —sat slightly apart from the others— **he had not thrown himself in brotherhood like Al—, he kept slightly apart and watched with hard sapphire blue eyes until Al— would try to drag him in close with a laugh and a joke** —and was slowly eating as chatter and laughter filled the hall._

_“Mind if I take this seat?”_

_Sapphire blue eyes glanced up at the dark-skinned elf before him; she grinned at him, dark-red hair newly cropped short and golden eyes gleaming like a cat as she almost patiently waited— **they had gone through the Joining, bound by the same tainted blood, they had drank from the same chalice, wore the same tainted blood around their necks, both were much more jaded then their blonde Warden-brother.**_

_“Help yourself,” Du— shrugged as she took the seat across from him, placing her bowl filled with stew on the table with a slight thump._

_“So,” she watched him, a curious tilt to her head, dark slender fingers toying with her spoon. “Did you really kill your brother?”_

_The dwarf halted with his spoon part way to his mouth and gave the elf a level look— **she would be the only one that would have the guts to ask, to ask him bluntly if he had committed the dark sin of kin-slaying and he still would not answer, his brother was dead either way and he had a hand in it.**_

_“Did you really slaughter a manor’s worth of guards and three nobles?” the dwarf asked in return as he lowered his spoon._

_“Yes,” there was no hesitation in Sir—‘s voice as she answered— **blood ran through the Arl’s of Denerim’s halls, his son left gutted, and golden eyes burned as she helped her cousin limp home**. “Do you regret your brother’s death?” _

_“Tr— was an arrogant arse who would have probably made a poor King,” he almost sighed, “but he was still my brother,” he looked at her slightly curious, “do you regret what you did?”_

_“I regret I didn’t feed the puffed-up cowardly noble his own cock before I gutted him like the worthless creature he was,” she informed him evenly, easily, with a hint of a smile curling her lips— **there was fury, there was grief, there was the knowledge she had to get them all home, so she strikes out, she kills them messily, but quickly despite the fact she wished she could take her time to unleash all her fury, to make them feel all the fear and pain that they had made her cousin feel**._

* * *

 

~ Training Grounds, Cousland Castle, Highever, 14th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~

Kenna panted, sweat stinging her eyes, but she only paused to catch her breath for a moment before she went through another flurry of blows at the dummy as the sky lightened as dawn became morning.

(Lileas was curled up under some blankets by the fence, bleary pale green eyes watching her silently)

She needed this, she need to focus on something as she fought to regain some balance to herself. The repeated blows against the dummy served as a distraction and good training as she wielded her blunted training-swords in both hands against the dummy.

She couldn’t sleep, not after all those dreams yesterday, not after they had changed, and she needed something to take her mind off her worries.

She didn’t understand why her dreams had changed, why her ability had changed twice in several months when they hadn’t changed since she was four and first started dream.

It didn’t just worry her, it terrified her. Her dreams caused her more internal conflict and confusion as thoughts—that were hers and yet not at the same time—echoed in her mind and she didn’t know what was going to happen next, she didn’t know if her ability was going to change once again or if it had settled.

But she had to push those emotions, had to settle herself, and that was why she was training at the before the crack of dawn with only Lileas as her silent company.

She couldn’t lose herself to her dreams, she wouldn’t allow herself to.

She had things to do, things to prepare for, she had to focus on the here and now to prepare for the future, not lose herself to the future and not doing anything.


	12. Chapter Twelve

_“You’ve rage enough inside you, tempered into a blade of fine steel. Into whose heart will you plunge that into one day, I wonder.”_ –Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, Mother of Vengeance, Asha’bellanar.

* * *

 

Perhaps if Kenna had been like any other children, she would have broken under her dreams, her visions, her incomplete—but still frightening, still worrying, still damning—foreknowledge.

But she wasn’t any other child, she was Kenna Cousland, and that meant something.

She was a daughter of Highever—of the Couslands that have ruled this land and people for generations, of Bann Cousland that earned their title as Teyrn by hunting down and driving out werewolves, of Teyrna Elethea Cousland that fought against King Calenhad (Calenhad the Great) and though she lost, she had impressed him enough to be allowed to remain as Teyrna and rule Highever—and of the Storm Coast—of the Mac Eanraigs, of generations of ‘raiders’ that protected the coasts of Ferelden, of Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig (The Storm Giant).

She was the daughter of Bryce Cousland—decorated soldier of the Rebellion—and Eleanor Cousland nee Mac Eanraig—feared raider of the Orlesian ships.

She was the sister of Ser Fergus Cousland the future Teyrn— _he stood strong in Lowever, looking at the map as they discuss their plans, his shoulders not hunched despite his grief and the sudden weight of crushing responsibility, his beard thicker and wilder and a new pale pink scar that started from his left temple until it disappeared into his beard, but he still smiled the same smile he gave her as a small form hurdles itself at him with a delighted cr_ y—of Captain Brannon Cousland— _he wouldn’t hesitate to give up both his title and the sea, he won’t hesitate to reach for the poisoned chalice with both eyes wide open, he’ll fight with a silver Griffon blazed across his chest as his lover rained down fire upon the darkspawn horde_ —and of Lady Caitlyn Cousland— _he crowned her with a circlet of gold and silver roses on her golden head, he helped her up and pressed a kiss to scarred lips, he held her hand as they turned and her free hand cradled the swell of her stomach as they are cheered, she was beautiful and strong_.

She was Lileas Surana’s Lady— _she was the only point of calm in the storm of magic, crystal glowing as the elements bent to her will; the wind roared, the ice spread, the lightning flashed, the earth rolled and the fire lashed out, pale green gaze steady on her foes and she destroyed them without mercy, without hesitation, confident and beautiful_ —and Giles’ Boss— _he leant against the map in Lowever, sea-glass blue gaze focused as one of his ‘bird’s’ moves figures on the map and reports, plots unfold behind intelligent eyes as he swore to make them regret every moment they lingered in their hom_ e.

She was Kenna Cousland—Fortune favours the Bold, We are the Storm—and she wouldn’t break, not to her own ‘gift’.

She had the salt of the sea in her blood, she had the fury of the storm in her heart, she had the pure stubborn will that would defy Kings and she wouldn’t break!

Not now, not ever.

* * *

 

Fergus Cousland didn’t as much as fell into love as he tripped into it—literally. The day he met Oriana Abascal wasn’t a day he would forget—nor it be a day that his little sister would let him forget as her ‘little birds’ told her all the embarrassing details—as it started with Nan charging into the dining hall with the fiercest scowl on her face that Fergus had seen in years as she ranted at full volume while dragging both Kenna and Lileas by the grips she had on their ears.

(You troublesome little brat! What if I hadn’t thought to look for you at the Training Grounds?! Do you know what worry you’d have caused everyone?! Leaving without a word! And so early! I should tan your ass red for this stunt! And you! Why didn’t you stop her?! Didn’t I tell you to stop her getting into trouble?! Now look at her! She’s going be useless for the rest of the day! I should tan both of you! That’ll make you think twice about making people worry!)

Kenna had been red-faced and sweaty dressed in her practise armour while Lileas had a blanket trailing behind her though had a redder face due to her fairer skin as Nan made them stand before Ser Kenneth to confess their ‘crime’ of training for Maker knows how long without anyone watching them—though Kenna claimed that she was the only one training and she had Lileas watching her, an argument that didn’t impress her audience.

Ser Kenneth hadn’t be impressed, and Fergus had cringed in sympathy as Ser Kenneth’s face had grown dark and he had glared down at his misbehaving student and her friend—Ser Morgan handled most of Lileas’ training after all so Lileas wasn’t considered his student—before ordering the both of them to run until they dropped—that would be on top of whatever punishment Aldous decided later on and whatever Nan thought to add on top of that, and whatever, if anything, Cait decided to do (which seemed likely by the growing look of thunder on her pretty face).

(Fergus could only send his dear sister a sympathetic smile as she was only allowed a small amount of breakfast before she was sent out with a glowering Nan looming over both young noble and elf as he headed out the door—he had been too relieved that Kenna was alright, had recovered from whatever happened to her yesterday, that he couldn’t help as angry with her as everyone else.)

He headed into the Barracks only to find that for some reason Guard-Captain Kane had assigned him a nervy newbie for the market patrol, which was annoying, but he’d deal with it as he had dealt with everything that Guard-Captain Kane had decided to throw his way since Ser Kenneth dumped him unto the Guardsmen without as much as a by-your-leave.

The newbie seemed torn between awe that he was an actual Knight and awe that he was also a noble which was annoying—they were both Guardsmen at that moment and they had a job to do—which made him nervous—it was also his final assignment which only made him more nervous. In hindsight, it was really obvious something would happen, and part of Fergus knew that—he just didn’t realise it would end up with him almost crushing his future-wife with the bulk of his weight and his Guardsmen armour.

* * *

 

~ The Market, Highever, 14th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~

“Maker, you are beautiful,” Fergus almost breathed out instead of the apology that he had meant to say as he stared down at the pretty young woman under him. “

And you are rather heavy, Ser,” she told him with the most beautiful accent—Antivan if he wasn’t mistaken—and a blush crawling up pale olive-toned cheeks.

Fergus flushed a deep red—to the audible giggles of certain ‘little birds’ nearby—and he struggled to get off her without hurting her.

“I’m so sorry,” Fergus told her as he levered himself up—thankfully without crushing or hurting her any more than he already had—before sticking a hand-out to help her up. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Just some bumps and bruises,” she told him as he levered her to her feet with easy—she was over a head shorter than him. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” She brushed off her sunset-orange silk gown—making him cringe as he had gotten an undoubtably expensive dress dirty, Cait would murder him if it had been her—and ran a hand over her deep auburn braids.

“I’m really sorry,” Fergus shot a glare towards where the newbie was frozen in true horror of what he had just done. “My fellow here was a bit too enthusiastic and I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should—I am truly sorry for the trouble we have caused you.”

He bowed his head towards her as she watched him with almost curious dark eyes.

“It is fine,” she told him with a hand motion as she was just waving it off, “it was just an accident, si?”

“An accident that shouldn’t have happened,” Fergus told her firmly. “If there is any way I can make up for what happened—”

“When are you free?” she interrupted him making him blink, startled and slightly bemused by this turn.

“Uh,” Fergus glanced upwards and roughly judged the time, “I have a break for lunch around noon?”

“Then you will treat me for a meal as an apology,” she told him with a hint of a smile. “Unless you object to that?”

“What? No, of course not,” Fergus spluttered briefly before he grinned. “How could I say no to dining with such a beautiful woman such as yourself?”

“Truly, it would be a mystery,” she smiled at him, a flush deepening on her cheeks. “I will meet you at the Barracks, si? It is rather impossible to mistake after all—ah, I am Oriana Abascal.”

“I’m Fergus Cousland, and I will be happy to meet you there,” Fergus grinned at her, delighted by this turn of events, and kept grinning until she left in a swirl of citrus perfume and sun-set orange skirts, then he clamped down a hand on the newbie’s shoulder. “Let’s see just what Guard-Captain Kane thinks about your performance, huh?”

He gulped under the darker turn to Fergus’ grin as he looked at him. “I-I’m sorry,” he cried out, but Fergus ignored him as he began to drag him back to the Barracks.

“Oh, you will be sorry,” Fergus promised brightly.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 14th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~

“—and the bastard went to Granny to tell her about ‘our’ lessons,” Giles ranted as he lounged in his seat while Kenna flexed her right hand with a grimace. “And you know what? She was damn pleased that he was teaching me how to fight!”

“Fighting is a useful skill,” Kenna told him as she picked up her quill-pen again, grimacing as she carefully wrote out ‘I will not make others worry unnecessarily, I will not train without proper supervision, I will not leave without informing someone’ for the dozenth time on the long roll of parchment that Aldous had given her. “Why are you so against it?”

“I’m not against it,” Giles claimed making Kenna share a look with Lileas across the desk—it kind of seemed like he was, they both silently agreed. “I just wanted to have some warning before he kidnapped me out of no-where,” he pinned Kenna with a glare, “why didn’t you tell me that that bastard would be training me too?”

“I didn’t know he was going to train you,” Kenna shrugged her left shoulder as she kept writing. “And aren’t you meant to be the head of my budding spy-network?”

“For outside the castle, not in,” Giles argued before he turned his pout—and it was a pout and not a scowl or something like, there was no doubt about that—towards Lileas. “Inside the castle is your realm, Lileas.”

Lileas glanced up from her own lines—‘I will inform someone if my foolish lady decides to do something foolish, I will stop my lady from doing something foolish, I will not silently go along with my foolish lady’s troublesome ideas’ was what Aldous had told her to write making Kenna scowl with an angry blush when he had drily told them just what the elf would be writing compared to Kenna—and blinked at him.

“I thought Kenna was my realm,” Lileas said with some confusion.

“You make me sound like a job or a duty,” Kenna sighed slightly with a hint of a pout, “you’re my friend, Lileas.”

“I am also your lady-in-waiting,” Lileas countered—she had come to terms with that fact she had somehow ended up as the friend of a noble, but she knew she couldn’t just forget that she was being raised as Kenna’s lady-in-waiting.

“Which also means you have to keep an eye and an ear out for inside threats,” Giles gave a loud sigh like Lileas was being slow by not knowing that before he scowled. “Like that bastard Knight.”

“That Knight,” Kenna began drily though she noticeably didn’t swear—Nan could be hovering outside the door and she would really tan Kenna’s ass red if she dared to swear. “Is my teacher, Giles.”

Giles scoffed before the door of Kenna’s room opened and a small form darted in

. “My Lady Kenna,” the child—one of Giles’ ‘little birds’—chirped almost joyously as he stopped beside Kenna’s seat.

“What are you doing here, brat?” Giles asked as he sat up and peered at the familiar form of the youngest of his little birds with narrowed blue sea-glass eyes.

“Reporting,” the child—named Benji—almost sang—with just the slightly smug lilt to his voice—before he turned his attention back to Kenna with a beaming smile.

Benji was one of the rare ‘little bird’ that was younger than Kenna—most had been her age or older—and had the honour of being the youngest at the age of five.

With big sea-blue eyes and a mess of dark curls framing his cherub-like face, he was adorable, and he knew it, and—according to Giles—used it ruthlessly to his advantage when it came to getting things and finding out things.

(Truly, Kenna hadn’t been surprised to find out that he was the son of one of the women that worked at the Sirens’ Pearl—one of the brothels of Highever—after she had witnessed Benji tilt his head just so and widen his big blue eyes just right to get what he wanted—be it something sweet to eat or just some gossip that could prove valuable later on.)

“And what are you reporting?” Kenna asked, thankful for the small break as she massaged her right hand.

“Lord-Ser Fergus has gotten a date with a pretty lady,” Benji reported dutifully and gleefully before launching into just how her eldest brother had met the ‘pretty lady’.

Kenna was never going to let him live it down, she decided long before Benji remembered to mention the name of the ‘pretty lady’ and Kenna knew she would one day call Oriana a sister—not like Cait, Cait was special and hers after all.

* * *

 

Surprisingly—if only to Cait—Bran kept his silence in the two weeks he and his crew stayed in Highever.

Though that didn’t mean that Cait couldn’t almost read the questions in his eyes—the same blue she saw in the mirror, the same blue of their father, a blue that was rather easy to read—and he continued to watch Kenna closely in a way that almost made Cait bristle protectively before she firmly reminded herself that he was _her_ brother, he was _Kenna’s brother_ , and he wouldn’t hurt her.

It was quickly obvious that Fergus had the measure of Bran—or remembered him clearly enough and figured he hadn’t changed too much—while Cait hadn’t—which annoyed her because she had trained herself to take the measure of people, to use her intelligence as a weapon and her pretty smile and looks as both a weapon and shield, to read people and predict them, and she had failed when it came to her own brother.

It had been Cait that always questioned things, it was Cait that didn’t shy away from asking questions and researching and ruthlessly hunting for the truth.

(Days spent in the library searching for answers, writing so many letters till her hand sized, all in the hopes of finding an answer, a cure, a remedy, anything for her sister, for Kenna. She had spent days looking for the right plants—seedlings, seeds and such—and arguing for a patch of the gardens, of arranging pots along her windowsills, of reading through thick books writing about botany, alchemy and simple herbalists, of spending almost her whole monthly allowance on creating her own alchemy station in between writing letter after letter of someone that would speak to her, that would take her seriously, that would help her.)

Bran was always the one that watched, he watched and waited, and thought before any question passed his lips.

(He had spent days watching how the sailors and fishermen readied small sailing boats, watching, thinking, trying it out for himself and only asking for help when he needed it, and then there was no stopping him from spending hours in the peaceful waters of one of Highever’s coves. He had spent hours watching how the steady hands held both wood and blade, how with carefully strokes of the blade a work of art could be created, he watched, and he thought, and he learnt, and then he asked for help to make sure he didn’t hurt himself or ruin his work.)

Fergus was the one that listened, he listened and thought, and never shied from asking questions, but that was only after he had thought of what he heard.

(He listened as Kenna sobbed, he listened as she screamed when Father reached out for her, he listened as she babbled into his neck about what she was seeing—of blood thick in the air, of betrayal and a reaching hand—and he soothed her as he thought, as he twisted over what he heard, and he searched quietly for something that match or came close to what he heard pass his little sister’s lips, he asked almost absent questions, and while it didn’t match, the underline basis fit and that had to be enough for now. He now listened to others, as they report crimes or gave witness, and he would listen and think, and then would he ask them questions as he pieced it all together, trying to get it to fit together even if though it was often now the full story, it was a start and Fergus had started with a lot less than what he sometimes get.)

It was how the eldest three had worked when they really wanted to know something—Cait would ask the questions, Bran would stand back and watch and think, while Fergus listened and pieced it all together—and Cait had forgot about that because it had been so long.

Five years, five years and Kenna had grown up, had changed, and Bran wasn’t there, he didn’t know, and how was Cait meant to tell him? How could she put into words the fear she had felt, that they all had felt, when Kenna had screamed and sobbed? How could she speak of what they tentatively believed was the truth of Kenna’s dreams? How did she explain what Kenna saw? Cait didn’t know.

How did she tell Bran that without thinking, without noticing, that Cait had taken Kenna away from their mother, had taken the place of mother in Kenna’s life? And that she had only now realised? That she couldn’t fix it, wouldn’t fix it, because Kenna was hers and needed her.

She didn’t know, all her knowledge failed her, all her cunning use of words refused her, and she was honestly relieved when the two weeks passed and the Ravencrest’s readied itself to sail to Ostwick for Art’s long-awaited reunion of his own immediate family.

It was easier to say goodbye then to explain, she had realised, and part of her dreaded when Bran would return home once again with questions she didn’t know how to answer—that she didn’t want to answer.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_"Living a lie….it feasters inside you, like poison. You have to fight for what's in your heart,"_ – Altus Doran Pavus of House Pavus of Tevinter, Agent of the Inquisition, Tevinter Ambassador to the Inquisition, Founding Member of the Lucerni.

* * *

 

~ The Ravencrest, off the Coast of Highever, the Waking Sea, 28th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~

Art leaned back against the railing beside Bran, keeping his gaze focused on the bustle of the deck while Bran brooded while staring down at the sea below.

"So," Art began almost lightly with his arms crossed his chest, "are you going to tell me what your sulking about now?"

"I'm not sulking," Bran informed him with an offended tone, "I'm thinking."

"With you, it's the same thing," Art shrugged one shoulder as he glanced down to see his older—but shorter—cousin glaring up at him with annoyed blue eyes. "Five years is a long time, you can't honestly have expected things to remain the same, right?"

Bran's jaw clenched—not in the stubborn way his little sister, Kenna, would stubbornly clench and set her jaw, but akin to it though it was with mild anger than pure stubbornness, Art recognised—and he turned his glare to the sea below as it was the cause of his problems and not the symbol of his freedom.

"I didn't expect things to change so much," Bran admitted after several long moments when Art was almost convinced that Bran would just ignore him and continue to brood—something his cousin/captain/best friend had done in the past and was rather good at. "Kenna was Mother's precious youngest, even a blind man could see how much she adored her, and Mother was always happy to keep her as close as possible. But somehow, in the five years I've been gone, that changed. Mother no longer keeps Kenna close, Kenna no longer turns to Mother for affection—and I don't know if it even occurs to her to go to Mother, no, now it's always Cait or Fergus that Kenna turns to, that she looks to first, and Mother, Mother seemed to have accepted that, but why?"

"Isn't that part of growing up?" Art offered making Bran scowl slightly—obviously the simplest answer wasn't the correct one in his mind.

"No," Bran decided firmly, stubbornly, "not like this. Something is wrong, something happened, something that Cait won't tell me and something Fergus would prefer me to ask him about only, so I don't upset either Cait or Kenna—which means it's upsetting, that something had gone wrong."

"Are you going to ask him?" Art asked for a moment on thinking about Bran's words, thinking about how Caitlyn had bristled whenever Bran would turn his watchful gaze on their little sister, the thin smile that Fergus would offer Bran when he looked like he was one step away from confronting Caitlyn, and turning his head so he could watch his Captain.

"Yes," Bran decided after a long moment of his own, "when we return to Highever, I'll ask him."

"Does that mean you'll stop sulking for now?" Art asked after a beat and Bran bumped him with his shoulder and a scowl making him boom out a laugh in return.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 5th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~

Without Bran, Caitlyn found it easier to return to duties towards the Alienage, the ongoing problem of finding a human member of her personal household—because Maker forbidden that Caitlyn only have nonhuman household members, the shock and horror of it all—and her continued studies.

(It was easier to relax without Bran's eyes—Cousland blue, her eyes, watchful and questioning—on them, on Kenna. Without Art—a stranger, yet family—around, and able to pick up things that was best left unsaid, things that had nothing to do with him despite the fact he was meant to be family.)

The Alienage project was going well, it really didn't need her input, but she liked to keep an eye on it and Rosina enjoyed knowing how things were progressing with her former home.

Davia helped her progress with some of her studies, and it was enjoyable to be able to be intelligently challenged by someone around her own age instead of at least a decade older than her—Caitlyn didn't regret to agreeing to house/employ Davia as she connect to the dwarf on a different level then she did with her elven lady-in-waiting. It was the interviews of the human girls and women that were the problem, and thus Caitlyn had enlisted Kenna's help—as part of her punishment for worrying Nan and everyone by sneaking out and training until she could hardly move.

Not that Kenna actually had to do anything apart from glance up as the girl or woman entered Caitlyn's small study—it may have been small but it was hers, her own personal study that Father had gifted her, so she didn't have to meet with people in her bedroom like she had before when she first started the Alienage project—before she'd continue with her studies with Lileas across from her—they had sat themselves on the floor around the small low table in front of the divan and covered it with parchment, books and the odd bottle of ink for their quill-pens.

Caitlyn had come to recognise the way Kenna would look at people that were important or that she could see their future, it was something she noticed when Kenna had met Davia.

Kenna had looked at Davia it was true, but her gaze had flickered away almost immediately. Kenna's mismatched eyes had focused just to the side of Davia, her eyes distance in a way that told Cait that her sister was seeing something that Cait couldn't. It was that gaze, that flicker away, that touch of distance, that Caitlyn was looking for when she met her possible ladies-in-waiting.

So far, Kenna had glanced up—looked right at them without her mismatched gaze flickering off to the side for even a moment—before she would return to frowning at the essay that she was writing for Aldous or something like that; Caitlyn would smile at the girl/woman with her practised pretty smile and let them prattle on about their skills for a while before dismissing them without second thought—they weren't the right one obviously, Kenna didn't see them as part of them after all.

And then Alouette Mac Sullivan—Orlesian first name, but Fereldan last name, which was interesting, especially as Mac Sullivan was the name of one of the senior Guardsmen that Fergus had talked about—came in for her interview and Kenna looked up and to the side of the dark-eyed dark-haired young woman instead of directly at her and Caitlyn smiled as Alouette smiled back at her—just as practised, just as pretty as Caitlyn's own.

Yes, she had found her human household member—and she was going to cause almost as much gossip and scandal as her nonhuman household members, Caitlyn knew without a doubt, and she found herself strangely looking forward to it.

* * *

 

_Dark hair braided back and affixed to a bun at the base of her neck, a silver mask with golden laurel-leaves and silver and gold roses covered the top half of her face, full painted lips pulled up into a pretty smile as dark eyes gleamed with hidden cunning. She wore a gown of soft yellow-gold with rich blue—royal blue, part of Kenna insisted—roses, blooming flowers and laurel-leaves embroidered across it and a shawl of white fur held shut with a golden pin of a small song-bird with a laurel in its talons—that is what Kenna saw, and something inside her recognised Alouette Mac Sullivan as the Ferelden Ambassador to Orlais, a woman sworn to Caitlyn, but also helping out Kenna as shown by the pin she wore._

* * *

 

Alouette Mac Sullivan was a daughter of two countries, of the Orlesian Empire and the Kingdom of Ferelden, a girl caught between two cultures and looked down upon because of it.

She was too much of a dog lord for her to be accepted by the Orlesians if she had any inclination to stay in her mother's homeland, and there was too much of Orlais in her blood for her to be truly accepted in her birth country and the homeland of her father.

Her parents had a real star-crossed lovers romance story—he had been a soldier fighting to free Ferelden during the Rebellion and she had been a bard under the employment of one of the Orlesian nobles that had taken over on behalf of their 'King'—that had the remarkable luck of having a happy ending.

Mother ended up killing her employer before using everything she learnt to become a skilled bard to ferret out information and relay it to her lover and his fellow rebels, which helped them greatly if Mother was to be believed and Father never denied it.

When King Maric was finally able to claim his throne, Alouette's parents married before deciding to settle in Highever as it was the largest port city that wasn't ruled by Orlais-hating Teyrn Loghain Mic Tir or the bitterly grieving King Maric that had the misfortunate of falling in love with a bard himself—only that love story ended up with the bard dead by his own sword if the rumours that Mother had gathered were true (something that Alouette—and Mother—had always believed was true), and was in fact ruled by the young war-hero Teyrn Bryce Cousland who counted the half Orlesian Arl Bryland as one of his best friends.

They made a home for themselves in Highever; Father joined the Guardsmen and Mother decided to use her hard-won skill in a different way by taking over the Sirens' Pearl from the rather lacklustre previous Madame.

It was through one of her 'cousins'—as the Pearls' workers and their children were akin to family to Alouette and her siblings—that she learnt about the Cousland sisters.

Benji was an eager little scamp that was always getting into trouble and only kept out of serious trouble by using the skills that Alouette's own mother had taught his by maximizing his cute looks and young age in a way that made most people soften and let him off the hook—he was going to grow into a heart-breaker, Alouette could already tell, and would probably become terrifying in his own way when he grew up.

Alouette supposed that it was that ability and good foresight of how that ability would grow that caught Giles'—or Halfhand as some had scornfully called the partly crippled boy—attention and he quickly recruited little Benji as one of his 'little birds' that ultimately answered to Kenna Cousland.

Most would be angry that their five-year-old cousin had been recruited into a budding spy-network, but 'most' weren't a part of Alouette's family and Alouette had quickly learnt all she would want about Kenna Cousland from her excited little cousin—the way he gushed about her was adorable.

Most would also think that would make her more inclined towards Kenna Cousland and joining her spy-network—something Alouette would no doubt excel at by the virtue of the bardic training that her Mother had put her through and Alouette's own interesting in acting—but Alouette had her eye on a bigger prize.

Kenna Cousland was a loyal, hard-working fiercely stubborn little thing that Alouette was perfectly content to allow to protect her little cousin and others, but Alouette wanted more, something different.

She wanted cunning, ambition and a sometimes-ruthless intelligence that would challenge her, which led to Alouette to the older Cousland sister.

Caitlyn Cousland, at the age of thirteen, was in charge of rebuilding the Alienage after successfully getting both the Alienage Elder and House Cadash to agree to her plans for it. She was well known for being a gifted scholar—Aldous wasn't shy about bragging about his favourite and gifted student after all—and was known for her silver-tongue already—if only for convincing both the Alienage Elder and House Cadash to agree with her plans.

Caitlyn Cousland had cunning, ambition and intelligence—the three key traits that Alouette looked for in an employer. Time would tell, Alouette supposed, if she was also able to be ruthless with those things.

Benji had kindly informed her that Caitlyn Cousland was still searching for a human lady-in-waiting, and Alouette had been able to get an interview with her would-be Lady.

So, now she was standing before Caitlyn Cousland and Alouette smiled—the pretty practised smile that her Mother had taught her—and Caitlyn Cousland smiled back—just as pretty, just as practised—and rich blue eyes gleamed with intelligence, with cunning, and Alouette was pleased, she knew her dark eyes would shine the same way.

 _Like recognised like_ , Alouette inwardly mused as the battle of words began between the thirteen-year-old Lady and fifteen-year-old 'Bard'.

* * *

 

_The patrons of the Gnawed Noble didn't really take notice of the new serving girl in the tavern, no they had much more important things to gossip about after all._

_"Did you hear about the Grey Wardens?"_

_"Terrible isn't it,"_

_"What has the Queen been doing?"_

_"You can't blame her, it's such a difficult time,"_

_"Did you hear what happened in Highever?"_

_"The Couslands—"_

_"I never would have thought he—"_

_"I never trusted that man—"_

_"Do you think this is really a Blight?"_

_"Have you heard about—"_

_Alouette smiled as she placed the tankards of ale, cider, mead or goblets of wine in front of the various gossiping nobles, merchants and such. She tucked every nugget of information away in her mind, she would write all down later in the code that was the brain-child of Giles and Davia and see about what she could do from her place in the heart of Denerim._

* * *

 

With the addition of Alouette into Cait's personal household, Kenna was finally released from the last of her punishment—something that she was going to take fully advantage of, she had decided.

Her Little Birds needed to at least know how to defend themselves, to be able to read and write, Kenna had decided it.

(It was Giles' fault really. She hadn't even thought about training them until Ser Kenneth collared Giles and Giles, in turn, complained about it to her.)

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 6th Justinian 9:21 ~

"You want to teach them to fight?" Giles asked, slightly incredulous, but willing to listen thankfully.

"Spying isn't a safe job," Kenna leaned back in her bed, a slight frown on her face. "Teaching them to fight could save their lives one day."

"And the reading and writing?" Lileas glanced up from her leather-bound notebook, a quill-pen tucked behind one ear as she almost absently turned to a blank page for new notes.

"They can write reports then instead of having to relay just on their memory," Kenna said making Giles nod in understanding and Lileas to write it down with a hum of understanding.

"Who are you going to get to teach them these things?" Lileas asked after a moment and Kenna frowned.

"That….I still have to figure out," she admitted making Giles snort, not surprised, and Lileas just nodded, also unsurprised, making her pout at them. "I'll figure it out!"

"Sure, you will, Boss," Giles smirked making her glare at him before a smirk crossed her face as she remembered something from her latest dream making him eye her warily. "What's that look for?"

"I want you and Davia Cadash to come up with a code to teach our Little Birds," she informed him making him stare at her.

"…..what?" he asked flatly making her smirk widen, something that just made him groan and flop sideways, so his head was resting on her lap in a boneless cat-way that screamed how done he was. "You'll have one problem with your plans when it comes to Souren."

"Souren?" Kenna asked curiously as she decided to play with Giles' hair—she should probably actually meet all of Giles' 'Little Birds' as the only one that Kenna knew without a doubt was Benji.

"She's blind," Giles informed them making Lileas look up and Kenna to pause briefly in her twisting Giles' short locks around her fingers.

"You have a blind spy?" Lileas asked with some disbelief, making a mental note that she should probably get to know Giles' Little Birds or at least make a record of them because this was the first time she had heard about Souren.

"She has sharp hearing," Giles defended, and Kenna twirled some of his hair around her finger while Lileas almost smirked, it seemed that Souren suited her name then. "Anyway, she comes with her twin, Itha."

Lileas actually cringed at that and stared down in disbelief at Giles, he only shrugged back as he understood her disbelief, but it was their parents that named the twins so what could they do about it?

"Doesn't mean she can't learn something from the lessons," Kenna decided firmly, and that was that as far as she was concerned. "I should probably also find out a Theatre troupe that wouldn't mind being hired to teach."

"A Theatre Troupe?" Lileas asked as Giles frowned almost thoughtfully.

"Huh," he said sounding more thoughtful then he looked, already seeing where Kenna was going with that thought. "That's clever, Boss."

"I'm not an idiot," Kenna poked Giles' forehead in reproach, her lips twisting in the littlest snarl with the clear sentiment of 'bastard' being delivered soundlessly to him as he stared up at her with that smug smirk and laughter in his sea-blue eyes— _the bastard_ , she thought to herself in the mixture of annoyance and affection that only Giles inspired in her. "

What else have you got knocking in that big brain of yours then, Boss?" he asked, still smirking up at her, all smug and plotting, and Kenna grinned down at him.

"Lots of things, Giles," she told him and glanced up at Lileas, dual-sea-coloured eyes dancing with thoughts and plots and Lileas smiled back, an echo of her future-self in the calm and steady-fast confidence in Kenna that was starting to appear. "Ready, Lileas?"

"Of course," Lileas held her quill-pen poised to write, and Kenna grinned again as she laid-out everything she had thought of for her friends.

* * *

 

~ Sirens' Pearl, Highever, 9th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~

The Sirens' Pearl was a rather classy place for a brothel, Giles thought as he lounged on one of the deep blue velvet divan—with its number of pillows in various shades of blue and made out of silk, velvet and crushed velvet—his back was against the armrest and his legs had been carelessly thrown over Kenna's lap—she hadn't even blinked at him, one hand rested on his calf and absently rubbing a circle with her thumb against the dark trousers though Madame Mac Sullivan had eyed him when he first done it and he had simply smirked at her to the delighted giggles of Benji.

The brat was cuddled up with his mother on one of the nearby chairs—Giles had taken one look at the young woman with her dark curls and sea-blue eyes, a coy smile curling her lips as she noticed Giles' attention, and had realised that Benji would one day grow up into a very pretty young man—and was watching everything with deviously glinting sea-blue eyes.

The curtains with some sort gauzy blue material that did little to keep the light out and seem to be there just to obscene what happened inside into shadows. Stained-glass of blues and greens concealed glow-lights and candles alike.

There was a large fireplace framed by what looked to be coral, but was probably some sort of stone painted and sculpted to look like it was coral straight from the reef—big enough to warm the whole of the large room with its long bar, mirrored wall filled with shelves of coloured bottles—and above that was a beautifully detailed mural; a rocky and treasonous cove, several ship wrecks, a ship that looked like it was just sinking under the sea, about half-a-dozen beautiful sirens lounged on the rocks in the foreground—pearls threaded through flowing hair, hanging between half-concealed breasts, wrapped around a reach arm—that were mostly painted as female—but there was a few males in the mix—all of them beautiful, tails silvery blue and mouths opened in a silent song, one of them was on the edge of the flat rock with one hand out-stretched towards a sailor treading water and a smile pulling her lips as she sang, and the sailor—bloodied from the rocks, half-drowned—with a look of besotted obsession on his face as he stared up at the siren, seemingly ignorant of his ship sinking or his drowning crew behind him, as he reached up with a revered hand like he was about to touch something holy instead of something that had lured him to his death.

Giles wondered idly if the patrons that visited the Pearl realised that the sailor in the mural was meant to portray them but found himself distracted by the amusement of the Knight—the same Knight that Kenna had brow-beat with the sheer force of her personality and stubbornness outside his house—assigned to Kenna and the way he tried to keep his gaze from drifting and lingering—he was failing, horribly—as he stood rigidly beside the divan that they had claimed with Madame Mac Sullivan had waved them to join her.

The man beside the Madame stretched almost catlike, his blue silk robe slipping from one shoulder and exposing his chest as muscles rippled under tanned skin and the Knight followed the movement before catching himself and snapped his flushed face away with an almost audible snap of his bones.

Giles felt a smirk curl his lips as the man smirked at the Knight before sending a wink towards Giles that made Benji muffle more giggles in the silk of his mother's own silk robes.

"So, what is it I can help you with, Lady Kenna?" the Madame asked in her softly accented voice, one finely boned hand holding a delicate pipe close so she could smoke as she eyed the young noble with the same dark eyes she shared with her daughter, greying hair perfectly done up, make-up understated in a way that enhanced her looks and wearing a dress of the darkest blue of the coldest ocean. "Or have you finally come to gain my blessing for your poaching of several of my children?"

Kenna's jaw clenched, the set of it familiar, as she stared at the older woman.

"I wasn't aware I needed your blessing," Kenna informed her, bluntly, straight-forwardly, with no political cunning or double-speak, and Giles felt a spark of fondness in his chest that quickly morphed into pride at the note of surprise that briefly showed on former Bard's face—yeah, his Boss was a strange girl for a noble's daughter and that was why Giles chose her. "I actually came to see if I could hire someone."

One dark eyebrow arched and painted full lips pulled in a coy smile.

"Aren't you a bit young for the services that mine offer?" the Madame asked, voice lilting suggestively.

"My Little Birds need teaching," Kenna ignored her words, her suggestive tone, ignored the flustered spluttering of the Knight, and charged ahead with her usual bull-headedness that Giles found endearing rather than annoying. "I can hire people to teach them to read and write, I can hire a Troupe to teach them to act, I can arrange for them to taught to fight, but there are skills, knowledge, that they need or could need that I don't know where get for them."

"What skills do you think mine and I could teach your Little Birds?" Madame asked after inhaling from her pipe, a trail of silvery smoke blowing from her mouth as she exhaled and spoke.

"Reading people, weapon concealment, lock picking," Kenna shrugged, "things like that, things a Bard would no doubt know."

"So," Madame drawled, "you wish to hire me?" she cocked her head to the side, show casing the curve of her neck in a way that was vulnerable and seductive and familiar from Benji using it to maximum his cuteness level when he widened his eyes and pouted just so, "I am not cheap."

Lileas leaned forward then, nerves having been tramped under Kenna's full-force and pig-headed affection and complete—sometimes baffling—faith, and brand-new leather-bound notebook opened on her lap and a silver dwarven 'fountainpen' in hand ready to note down the agreement and such.

"Shall we talk price per lesson or a steady wage?" the pale elf asked, pale green eyes focused on the Madame—Lileas would be the one that dealt with money, with the accounts that Lady Caitlyn had arranged for her little sister and her projects, because Kenna had almost no head for numbers.

There was a beat, an air of almost disbelief surrounding the Madame, and then she threw her head back with a bright and full laugh.

"Oh," she grinned at them, all teeth and poisoned words, "I'm going to have fun with you, you will be terrors when you grow up."

"Thank you," Giles decided to add his two coppers in, his smug smirk firmly in place as she glanced at him. "We try our best."

"I'm sure you do," Madame chuckled, amused as she leaned back on her divan. "Yes, little Surana, let's talk money."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of rape.

_"'You are who you choose to follow.' Someone told me that once, took me years to figure out what he meant."_ –'Blackwall', Agent of the Inquisition, Companion of the Inquisitor.

* * *

For the first time since that day in the corridor as she stood waiting for the Teyrn's judgement of her sister and Kenna Cousland wrapped her rough golden fingers around her slim wrist—protective, possessive, kind—and dragged her before her father to declare that Lileas—little Lileas Surana, whose mother died bringing her into the world, whose sister was more her mother, whose father worked until he got sick and died to keep a roof over their heads and food on their table—was going to be her Lady-in-Waiting—because Kenna hadn't asked, hadn't even thought to ask, she had declared and dared her father to deny her—that Lileas was actually the lady-in-waiting that Kenna had declared her to be, and wasn't just being paid to be Kenna's friend and play-mate like she had been feeling.

The Couslands had been very kind to her and her sister, Lileas knew.

They had bought them a whole new wardrobe—dressed them from head to toe in their daughters' personal colours, an unsubtle claim to anyone with eyes—had allowed them to sit in the same lessons as their daughters—to give the same level of education they allowed their noble-born daughters to two orphan elves were unheard of—allowed them to sit at their table and eat the same food—Kenna had done her best to get Lileas to adjust, had changed her eating and had ate it stubbornly despite her dislike of it for Lileas because she was that baffling kind to Lileas—had allowed them to be taught to fight and fitted for armour—practise armour for now, but one day, Lileas knew proper armour would be fitted for them—and even made sure they had a wage when Lileas did nothing—Rosina at least was helping Lady Caitlyn, had quickly been given duties and trust while Kenna hunted for a teacher for Lileas, to hide her and keep her safe.

It had been uncomfortable, it had made her ashamed that she was being paid to be Kenna's—kind, bold and honest Kenna—friend, her playmate and study-partner.

The addition of Giles to their group had made those things worst and not better really, because while Kenna may have been paying Giles, he was actually earning his wage by gathering the Little Birds—because of course Giles' joke became their actual name—and reporting anything of note while Lileas did nothing and in fact owed Kenna more with Mirwen acting as her magic.

And then, Lady Caitlyn had collared them, and had told them she knew all about the Little Birds—because of Alouette's addition to her personal Household no doubt—and was disappointed that Kenna hadn't seen fit to inform her big sister of her budding spy-network—she was also trying not to smile in pride, Lileas had noticed—before informing them that she had gotten them an account for them to use when it came to the Little Birds—'no more using your allowance, Kenna, I mean it'—and Kenna had immediately turned to Lileas—no hesitation, no doubt, complete faith in her in a way that was humbling—and gave control of the account over to the elf—'I can't do numbers, Lileas! They hurt my head! Please?'

Numbers were something Lileas was good at, that she out-paced Kenna without trying, and balancing an account? Lileas remembered being young and sitting on Rosina's lap as her elder sister calculated just how far they could stretch their father's wage to feed and clothed them all. For the first time, Lileas was doing something to earn her wages and Lileas was proud of it, proud of the complete faith that her Lady had in her and was completely resolved to do Kenna proud—ignoring the fact that Kenna was proud of Lileas no matter what she did. It was filled with this pride, with this resolve, that Lileas was able to steel herself to bargain against the Madame.

* * *

 

Aldhlean, if anyone cared to ask, did not miss his magic nor his ability to dream, and was perfectly content—even happy if he could claim to feel that—with his state as a Tranquil. But, he supposed, that was because he chose to be Tranquil, he chose to undergo the rite and have the sunburst brand placed on his brow as his connection to the Fade was severed, and he supposed that mattered even if his fellow Tranquil would likewise claim to be content.

(And if Aldhlean was truthful, he didn't feel much different afterwards and that, he also supposed, said everything about him.)

Tranquillity, to him, had meant freedom in a way; freedom from the demons disturbing his rest with attempts to bargain his body and mind away from him, freedom from the scorching and distrusting gazes of the Templar, freedom to explore runes and enchantments, and freedom from the Tower.

It was a freedom he took with both hands—greedily, perhaps—and he enjoyed the life he had created himself in Highever, his shop filled with books, bottles of potions, tonics and tins of pastes, shelves filled with glow-lights and other creations, and he, especially, enjoyed the Curiosity of the Couslands too.

* * *

~ Enchanted by the Sea, Highever, 9th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~

Aldhlean glanced up as the bell above his door rang as the door opened, disinterest quickly being replaced with curiosity as the Cousland Curiosity strode in with her apostate elven servant and her elven-blooded partly-crippled budding spy-master just behind her and trailing even further behind was of course a Knight to protect her—a Knight that seemed rather flustered and kept a bit more distance than he should in his state.

"Lady Kenna," Aldhlean greeted, all soft tones and barely there smile, and Lady Kenna grinned at him, bold in her delight in seeing him—a rare thing for any Tranquil to be gifted with—and he let his golden gaze linger on the necklace around the apostate's neck—the crystal more than the rather beautiful gold chain of laurel leaves that held it. "I'm glad you found a use for that crystal I got you."

The apostate faltered under his gaze, fear and repulsion flashing across her fair face as her pale green gaze locked on the red sun-burst on his brow—a common reaction from mages, Aldhlean had come to recognise though he didn't remember feeling it himself when he was a mage, but Aldhlean had always been rather different.

"Ah," Lady Kenna paused, grin faltering just so as she reached out for the apostate's wrist—golden fingers curling around a pale wrist, protective and calming—and the elven girl calmed as she pressed against her Lady's arm. "I forgot to thank you for your help."

"It was my pleasure," Aldhlean gave a slightly bow, a few ginger strands hair falling over his shoulder—a paler shade than the spun copper and bronze locks that Lady Kenna sported, that blazed like fire under direct sunlight—he straightened and brushed his long locks back over his shoulder and behind one pointed ear. "How may I help you this day?"

"Do you know any herbalists or maybe even an alchemists that wouldn't mind teaching?" Lady Kenna asked as she leaned against the counter of his shop, fingers still wrapped around the apostate's wrist, completely confident that Aldhlean wouldn't out the younger elf as a mage or inform the Templars—she wasn't wrong, if only out of curiosity of how long they could keep it hidden and what type of mage she would turn out to be without the teachings of the Tower.

(There was a reason demons of Pride—corrupted Spirits of Wisdom—had been the ones most drawn to him before. Curiosity had always been his worst sin.)

Aldhlean almost felt his lips twitch, perhaps what he was feeling for his Curiosity was also fondness—he wasn't sure, maybe possession was a better word for it.

"Isn't your sister learning to be an alchemist?" Aldhlean asked as he turned towards his record books and reached for the green leather bound one with one pale hand. "Surely, Lady Caitlyn would be willing to teach you all that you wish to know?"

"It's not for me," Lady Kenna informed him as he turned and he hummed in acknowledge, golden gaze flicking up and catching the curious—and wary—sea-glass blue gaze of the budding spymaster in his shop. "And anyway, Cait's busy with her studies and the Alienage."

The boy was wary of him, could see that there was something wrong with him that wasn't his Tranquillity, and Aldhlean felt his lips twitch again which only seemed to unnerve the apostate and spymaster as Lady Kenna took it in her stride—she was truly a curious girl, Aldhlean thought once again with the surge of emotion (emotion he supposed shouldn't be able to feel according to every mage or Templar with opinions) that only she managed to drag out of him.

"I see," Aldhlean said as he flipped through the pages, "I know a few people that could be interested—mostly herbalists."

"Thank you," Lady Kenna beamed at him as he turned the book towards her so she could read the neatly printed names. The apostate unbuckled the book hanging from her belt—the leather dyed an almost midnight blue with a stylised songbird was indented on the front—and flipped it open to a clean page as she slipped a dwarven fountainpen from her pocket—made of silver, pricey and rare as most were content with quill-pens, her grip awkward which showed she was still getting used to the different grip—and she leaned close as she copied the names—all signs of her previous fear and repulsion either gone or hidden from causal view, strengthen by the fingers that had wrapped around her wrist? Bolstered by the reminder that her Lady was ever ready to protect her? —he tapped with one slender finger.

"I can contact them for you, if you wish?" Aldhlean offered lightly making the pen pause in a pale hand as Lady Kenna smiled up at him—accepting, fearless, unique.

"That would be very helpful," she told him though the apostate continued to copy the names he tapped—for her own records, perhaps.

"Anything for my favourite curiosity," he told her, almost fond but undoubtably possessive, and both the apostate and little spymaster stiffened while Lady Kenna didn't even blink—he didn't expect she would shy away from such possessiveness, not being who she was, not loving her siblings like she did, no, Kenna Cousland understood how easily affection and possession could be mixed and wouldn't shy away from it, wouldn't fear it.

(He remembered three years ago;

Fergus Cousland coming into his shop, a thin smile on his lips as he asked about books detailing the Seers of Rivain, of him curling up on one of his windowsills and slowly reading each book day after day.

He remembered Caitlyn Cousland coming into his shop, golden hair pulled back into tight braids, twisted and pinned until they resembled flowers, a pretty practised smile curling her lips and a note of desperation to her voice as she asked for a number of books on herbalism and alchemy, as she asked for names she could contact to further her studies.

He remembered just that year;

Kenna Cousland with her fire-hair—copper and bronze—braided and pinned around her head into a crown, of bold heterochromia eyes, of the set of her jaw as she asked for a foci crystal—about the size of an egg, even that shape if possible—and the silent dare to her gaze, daring him to report her for what she was purchasing. The Cousland siblings knew all about possessive and protective love.)

"Thank you," Lady Kenna, his Curiosity, repeated with another smile—no fear, no wariness, no disgust.

* * *

 

_"It would be wise of you to remain indoors and safe in your manor, young Cadash," Aldhlean's voice was as calm and soft as ever, but still made the young dwarf jump as she turned away from the window and towards him, golden eyes wide and face a touch pale— **afraid, but curious, fear would soon leave and in place would be scholarly interest.** _

_"I…I didn't know you could make wards powered just by runes," she stuttered slightly, glancing back towards the window where several smoking corpses were arranged just outside the shop, what made the sight of them more frightening was the fact they were still standing— **Aldhlean was lethal in his rune ward design, the moment the bells rang through the once still air of Highever he had placed his bloody hand on the keystone rune to his defences, the lyrium sung as it powered up, runes carved into his walls, into the frames of his windows and doors, all flared with the power he had carefully folded into and waited for the foolish invaders to attempt to collar him, to make him into their pet Tranquil.** _

_Aldhlean hummed lightly, a look of detached interest appearing on his freckled face as he watched the other would-be invaders of his shop, possible kidnappers of his customer, and the force that drove his Curiosity from her home, panic and back away from his shop like the Maker himself was about to strike them down— **the Maker would have been more merciful, Aldhlean thought to himself, as he could still feel mercy while Aldhlean didn't know if he had ever truly felt mercy for someone (something deep inside of her murmured the word 'sociopath' and Kenna wondered if that truly suited the man).** _

_"I don't believe many have tried before," he offered before glancing at the young dwarf, still just a child really. "Do you wish to learn?"_

_There was a beat of silence before the young dwarf looked up, golden eyes gleaming and short pig-tails bouncing as she grinned and almost bounced towards him in gleeful interest._

_"Can I really?" she asked, all wide-eyed and full of interest— **and Aldhlean was charmed in a different way than he had been then when his Curiosity had first strode into his shop so many years ago.**_

_"Of course," Aldhlean smiled— **the barest curve of his lips upward, real in a way most didn't expect from a Tranquil** —as he waved towards the back of his shop, turning on his heel and hearing the young dwarf almost stomping after him in her excitement._

* * *

~ Blacksmith, Highever, 9th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~

The Blacksmith of Highever had no fancy name nor was it own by one sole person and was kept in one of the largest buildings in Highever; it kept its large doors and its windows were barred instead of glass so the smiths wouldn't overheat completely from the heat of a dozen forges.

Dwarves from House Cadash—once they held another name, but that was before they followed their patrons out of Orzammar and now they were all Cadash—men from all walks of life—former soldiers that took up them hammer after the Rebellion, men that were born into Blacksmith families, some that just had the luck to catch someone's eyes and learn the trade—and elves—boarder from pounding at hot metal, working it with all their strength, not so slim and slender as being a smith was good work.

Cousland Castle may have their own blacksmith, but Kenna had decided to go to Highever's one for her order—the Blacksmith of Highever had everything from normal blacksmiths, blade-makers, armour forgers, and jewellery crafters after all while the Castle's blacksmith was more of a place for blades to be reworked, armour to be adjusted and hammered to fit the soldiers' different frames, and not an actual Craft Hall filled with different disciples of the forge.

"Can we please eat after this, Boss?" Giles leaned against her, elbow resting on her shoulder in a way that was a silent taunt about her height, and she was tempted to drive one of her elbows into his side—her elbows were bony and because of that it hurt more when she did that, she had been told repeatedly by both Fergus and Giles. "Some of us are starving, you know?"

"Fine," Kenna agreed as she felt her stomach grumble in almost agreement to Giles' words. "After this, we'll find somewhere to eat."

"The market has several food-stalls that serve meals," Lileas added, "it should be rather easy to find at least one that we all like."

"Come on," Kenna nudged Giles off with her pointy and bony elbow and strode forward to the sweltering heat of the Blacksmith's. "This shouldn't take long after all."

"Can I help you, my Lady?" a young voice asked, pitched to carry over the sound of the hammers, and Kenna turned to see a young elf boy about two years her senior walking towards her.

Blonde hair—a shade or two paler than Cait's—was cut sensibly short considering the heat and he was dressed in light trousers and a sleeveless tunic covered by a small leather apron—an apprentice.

"I'm looking for a jeweller," she told the elf as he nodded his head in greeting to both Lileas and Giles flanking her. "I have something I wished to be crafted."

"Most go through a jewellery store for that, my Lady," the boy frowned slightly, almost thoughtful as he looked at her with light grey-blue eyes. "Even with personalised requests."

"I prefer to go to the source," Kenna shrugged lightly making the boy nod, again thoughtful as his grey-blue gaze different through the large Hallas if he was already searching out the jewellers.

"This way then," he gestured, "the jewellers prefer to be in their own room, the noise can be distracting for some."

"Thank you," Kenna told him as she followed. "What's your name?"

"Nelaros, my lady," he told her, flashing a smile over his shoulder briefly, and looking away before he could see the blood-drain from her face as she saw a flash of him older, dressed in fine clothes and wielding a blade, of the sickening squelch of the sword pulling itself carelessly from his gut, a woman's enraged scream as he fell with grey-blue eyes already dulling in death.

She stumbled and Lileas was there, a steadying presence on her right as Giles steadied her on left.

"My Lady?"

"Boss?"

"I'm fine," she told them, clenching her jaw just as Nelaros—dead, dead, he was going to die—looked back at them in concern.

"Are you alright, my Lady?" he asked, eyeing her face in concern. "The heat can be a bit much to those unused to it—the jewellers' area is a lot cooler."

"I'm fine," she told him, forcing a smile. "Just caught off guard."

"I'll get you some water after I leave you with the jewellers," Nelaros decided after a moment and sped his pace up as if he was trying to get her through the heat as quickly as possible.

Kenna clenched her jaw as she followed, feeling cold despite the heat that was causing sweat to bead on her forehead and the nape of her neck.

She couldn't save everyone, Fergus had told her, had hold her close as she sobbed that Father didn't believe her, that he wouldn't believe her, and he would die for it.

No matter how much she wanted to, sometimes no matter how much she tried, people would die, he had told her firmly.

Ser Kenneth had drilled into her how easy it was to die, how one misstep and it could be her dead, bleeding out because of some enemy's sword. He had beat it into her that there would always be someone better, luckier, stronger, faster than her and one mistake, one hesitation, one cocky thought, could spell her end.

Nelaros was going to die, she knew that know, but not the where, why or who, and frankly she didn't know if she'd ever know.

She couldn't save everyone, she repeated in her mind, but she could damn well try to save as many as hers as possible—that's was what she was doing around, arranging things to give them the best tools possible to survive.

And, as cruel and as heartless as it sounded, Nelaros wasn't one of hers.

* * *

_Red hair—deep and dark like fine wine—fell from a once beautiful braid threaded with flowers—Andraste's Grace, the small golden flowers of Prophet's Laurel, pale roses—a white gown bloodied and torn—embroidered Crystal Grace along the bodice—dark skin almost ashen._

_She stood before a snivelling coward, a rapist and murderer, and she felt contempt as he attempted to bargain with her— **how dare he, how dare he, how dare he** —while her cousin— **her cousin, her sister, hers to protect** —lay behind him, crying softly with her dress messy and his seed running down her legs— **he had touched her, had taken her, had forced her, bastard, bastard, BASTARD.**_

_The ring— **his ring, the ring he had made for her, a ring she had to take off his corpse** —pressed into her finger as her hands clenched around the short-swords she had taken from his soldiers— **they had foamed at the mouth, had stared at her with a slow realisation as they choked and died on the poisoned drink they had allowed her to serve them, unsuspecting of the truth, too wrapped up in themselves to wonder about the presence of a strange female elf, they should have suspected, they had seen the others dragged from that room after all** —that suited her better than the single longer and heavier blade So— had managed to get to her. _

_"I'll pay you!" he burst out in desperation and she snapped— **HOW DARE HE!** _

_He gurgled, shocked and afraid as he looked up at her blazing golden eyes, her short shoved through his throat._

_He was dead before she removed her sword, his mind just hadn't caught up with it yet._

_"Oh Maker," one of his friends whimpered as his body slumped in front of her feet. "Pleas—"_

_He was silenced just as quickly as his friend, the other lunged for a weapon and her cousin took him out with several crossbow bolts to the back._

_"Get the others," she told her cousin, he took one pained look at their cousin before hurrying to the other room as she knelt before her weeping cousin. "They're dead, Shi—. They won't ever hurt you again."_

_She lifted her dark golden gaze, pale skin flushed red from her tears, a bruise darkening across her cheek and her bloody mouth curled into a snarl._

_"Good," she snarled, raging and hurting, one leg lashing out to kick at his body. "Good!"_


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_“Have you ever played Wicked Grace? It is easy to learn, but difficult to master. You must watch your opponents’ moves as carefully as your own.”_ – ‘Admiral’ Isabella of the Felicisima Armada, friend of the Champion of Kirkwall.

* * *

 

~ The Barracks, Cousland Castle, Highever, 10th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~

There was a lively beat of music—small hand drums, recorders and a lute—filled the air as off-duty soldiers, knights and retired soldiers shared laughs and drinks. Smoke from a dozen pipes curled in the air, the smell of the tobacco and herbs thicker than the smell of ale, wine and mead.

It was no place for a Lady, and yet one pint-sized one had waltzed in without a care and sat herself down at one of the tables set up between the bunks for Wicked Grace with the smirking elven-blood boy at her side while her elven lady-in-waiting wrinkled her nose as she leaned against the chair her mistress had taken.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Kenneth arched one thick brow at his young student as the cards were dealt.

“Getting to know my future employees,” Kenna smiled at him as she accepted her five cards, looking oh-so dainty next to the bulky soldier to her left.

“What?” Kenneth questioned almost flatly as he shot a look to a smirking Giles as the boy accepted his own five cards—he was almost certain that it was the boy’s fault that his young student was here and the way the boy was smirking wasn’t helping his case.

“I need a trainer, several actually” Kenna shrugged one shoulder, mismatched gaze flickering up from her cards. “I’m hoping find some that wouldn’t mind taking on some students.”

“For your Little Birds, right?” Kenneth asked as he glanced at his cards and reached to pick up his lit pipe—Nan had kept him to date with their shared charge, and there was little about what the Spitfire got up to that Nan didn’t know. “And what does Wicked Grace have to do with finding a trainer?”

“Don’t you know?” Giles spoke up, smug and with the unspoken but still heard ‘Bastard Knight’ at the end of his question by those that knew him—Kenna, Lileas and Kenneth. “How someone plays Wicked Grace can tell you a lot about them.”

Kenneth cocked his brow at the brat and made a point to blow a lung full of smoke directly into his smug face. His reaction was a delight in Kenneth’s opinion; Giles lurched back, coughing with full on watery eyes and a heavy glare as he used his cards as a make-shift fan.

“What the fuck?” he coughed, he spluttered—it was beautiful. “How the fuck did some bastard like you become a knight?”

“I killed some Orlesian pricks and lived to tell little brats like you about it,” Kenneth told him almost mildly as he put down his cards so he could have a long pull of his tankard of ale—his third or fourth of the night. “It’s how most of my generation got their fancy title of knight, it’s how one common bastard became a Teyrn in his own right.”

“You have terrible taste in whatever that is,” Giles wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, his cards laid face down on the table. “It stinks.”

“I like it, brat,” Kenneth shrugged his massive shoulders at Giles’ disbelieving glare. “Come on, you and your boss have to impress us if you want any trainers.”

There was a chorus of agreements from those around them and Giles scowled slightly as he picked up his cards again.

“You are on, Bastard Knight,” Giles smirked at him, smug and determined—arrogant little brat, Kenneth had apparently been too kind to him if he was able to be this cheeky with him.

“You better not pick up on the brat’s shitty language, Spitfire,” Kenneth warned his student, “Nan would tan your hide red and wash out your mouth with soap if you did.”

“I know,” Kenna grimaced making him chuckle—Kenna had never feared Nan, and he doubted she ever would, she was however rather respectful of Nan and just what she’d do to the young noble if she caught her doing something she didn’t approve of.

(Kenna walked away that night several sovereigns lighter, but with several trainers for her Little Birds and priceless memory of Giles making Ser Kenneth snort ale out of his nose after one creative tirade against the man himself that managed to insult not just the Knight, but his manhood, his father, and his grandfather almost in one breath—Lileas had blushed fiercely, Kenna had been torn between laughter and completely awe at Giles’ gall, and the soldiers and knights around them burst out in stomach-splitting laughter and one had offered to be one of her trainers as long as Giles and his smart mouth was there.

Giles would no doubt have many smart-ass things to say about Ser Kenneth soon enough if the glint in her mentor’s eyes were anything to go by, so Rodrik Hill would not be disappointed.)

* * *

 

~ Caitlyn’s Study, Cousland Castle, Highever, 11th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~

Caitlyn leaned back in her chair as she looked at the boy—young man maybe—in front of her. Sun-streaked hair—neither short nor long, a medium length she supposed—pale blue eyes that reminded her of the bits of sea-glass that Kenna would pick up on the beach when she was little—Cait still had the collection of ‘pretty’ stones, shells and sea-glass kept safe in a small wooden box tucked in her bedroom’s desk, treasures that Kenna had pressed into her hand with a toothy grin that wasn’t tainted by the horror of her dreams, of screams and cries in the dark.

The shape of his eyes were the most noticeably nod to his elven blood—it was remarkably strong in fact considering it was accepted as a common fact that elven-blooded children took more after their human parent—and there was an echo of the fine-bones and small features that elves were known for in his face.

His broadness around the shoulders no doubt came from his human father, the rest of his frame again echoed his elven blood by being almost willowy.

“You’re Giles, correct?” she asked as she took in the younger boy—three years her junior, three years her sister’s senior.

Alouette had enlightened Caitlyn to just what Kenna was getting up to with her new friend with Lileas a willing aid, something Cait had only the barest inkling of.

Rosina had been surprised—and maybe a bit appalled—by just what her little sister was letting her mistress get mixed up to, while Caitlyn was also surprised, she would be the first to admit she was proud too.

She hadn’t thought that Kenna—honest, head-strong Kenna—would be the first of the siblings to gather a spy-network or gain the loyalty of a budding spy master—especially as Kenna hated politics and spies were the most useful for those playing the game of politics—but Kenna always seemed to enjoy surprising people.

Giles was young, ten-years old, and already mixing himself up willingly in the dangerous job of spying in the service of Cait’s little sister.

Why? Caitlyn didn’t know, and that made her hackles raise, made her want to bare her teeth at him as she protected her Kenna, her little sister—there was a reason that none of Ferelden disputed the title of ‘Dog Lords’.

He was newly sworn into Kenna’s service, most of his wages had come from Kenna’s allowance—before Cait stepped in and arranged for proper accounts for Kenna’s endeavour, accounts Kenna should have come to her for when she first thought of her Little Birds—the amount was a mere pittance really so it couldn’t have been for money and Caitlyn somehow doubted his loyalty for Kenna was that strong.

(Not that Caitlyn doubted her sister’s ability to inspire loyalty as Kenna with all her bull-headed affection, her freely given protection and pure honesty was easily compelling in a way that Caitlyn had to learn to be with a silver-tongue, honey-words and a practised smile. Kenna inspired effortlessly while Caitlyn plotted and spoke honeyed words to get her way.)

Perhaps for the challenge? Nan had called him an ‘arrogant brat’ so perhaps arrogance had something to do with it as well as the challenge it presented to his mind as the boy was clearly intelligent—one only had to look at his eyes, sea-glass blue that shone with intelligence.

“Yes, my lady,” he nodded, left hand tucked in the pocket of trousers—the deformed hand from what Alouette and Rosina told her.

“How can I help you?” she asked after a beat of watching him as he stood almost at ease in front of her—her sharp eyes noticed the tension in his shoulders, the shift of his weight as he stood, and knew he wasn’t as at ease in front as her as he liked to pretend.

“The time of your Cadash,” Giles informed her easily, pale blue eyes sharp as he watched her face, and she frowned slightly while Davia actually paused in her writing, Alouette’s head tilted towards the boy while she continued to strum her lute almost absently and Rosina looked up from book—it was one of Caitlyn’s handwritten books filled with her own recipes for bruise-paste, sleep-aid, pain tonic and such.

“Oh?” Caitlyn raised her pale brows in curiosity and slight weariness, ready to protect the dwarf that had been entrusted to her, “and why do you want that?”

“Boss, for some reason, believes I should come up with a code for the Little Birds with the help of Davia,” he almost rolled his eyes, but refrained—he obviously had more manners than Nan suspected if he could restrain himself in her presence.

“Kenna does?” Caitlyn relaxed and Giles’ pale eyes narrowed—he had caught it and was confused by it which made something loosen in her chest, Kenna hadn’t told him, at least not yet. “Very well, if that is alright with you, Davia?”

Davia frowned thoughtfully, tapping her pencil against her notebook.

“A code easy enough to remember, but hard to crack,” Davia mused in interest, gaze distance as she thought, “difficult, but interesting.”

“When do you want to start then?” Caitlyn smiled, she could almost see the ideas turning behind Davia’s bright golden-brown eyes.

“Uh, now I suppose?” Giles almost questioned as he looked over his shoulder to where Davia was pulling a new notebook out from her pocket and opening it before looking towards Giles expectedly. “Right, now.”

He walked over and settled on the divan across from Davia and Alouette turned her full attention back to her lute—“What type of bard would I be if I couldn’t play the lute?” Alouette had laughed lightly when she first brought her lute to Caitlyn’s study and saw her surprised amusement—and Rosina returned to her book, frowning thoughtfully to herself as she read—mentally making notes, no doubt.

Caitlyn watched for a long moment, taking in Giles as he bent forward and spoke softly with Davia with pen and book in hand, and once again musing that her sister had a strange affinity for strays, outcasts and broken people before she turned her attention to her correspondences. Caitlyn flicked through her letters;

One from Brother Genitivi about his research into the Urn of Andraste’s Sacred Ashes—something he had been interested in for years, but only recently had he decided to fully study and hope to one day find.

One from Madame Vivienne—Grand-Duke Gaspard de Chalons had returned to Orlais as the conquering hero, in prefect position to try for the throne and yet seemingly content to allow his younger cousin to hold it and play the Game, though Madame Vivienne wondered how long that would last (privately, Caitlyn wondered the same).

One from Delilah Howe—her father been a bit too obvious and heavy-handed when it came to his desire for her to marry Bran, and she spent most of the letter ranting about him (her father, not Bran).

And one from a rather radical surgeon that Aldhlean had gotten her in touch with—he apparently disbelieved Humourism, and had other theories for why people get sick, theories that were fascinating to read and rather made sense when he broke them down before he turned to his new and different methods when it came to healing.

Caitlyn already knew she was going to pour over his writings—pages filled with hurried letters and sketches to illustrate his point—perhaps for hours as she took in everything he wrote.

She reached out for some loose parchment and her fountainpen—Kenna had bought several from House Cadash; one for Lileas, one for herself, one for Fergus, one for Caitlyn, and it seemed one for Giles as he had pulled a bronze pen from his pocket when he sat across from Davia—and was ready for any questions she thought of for her letter to him—it would be a long letter, she already knew that.

* * *

 

~ Training Hall One, Lowever, 21st Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~

It was rather startling what Kenna could accomplish with a healthy budget and the fully force of her stubborn will, Caitlyn couldn’t help but muse as she glanced around the Training Hall of Lowever and took in just what Kenna had done in such a short time.

Whatever dust that had lingered had been cleared, old training dummies had been replaced with robust new ones, stands had been brought in filled with wooden training weapons in all shapes and sizes, several targets had been put up for learning archery, a long table had put near the end of the hall and was covered in food; cold cuts of meat, bread freshly baked that morning, bowls of fruits, jars of jams and butters, enchanted jugs of milk, juice and water.

A small stool had been set up for the seamstress to measure each child before adjusting one of the already sown coats—made of thick material that wouldn’t wear easily, all sized for an adult in a range of dark colours—to their small frames by several young apprentices.

Apprentice cobblers were going through their collection of boots—none up to their master’s satisfaction—as feet were measures and boots were given over—a touch too big, need to be stuffed slightly, but that only gave them a longer life on the feet of those children.

The armoury had his own stool ready for the children to be measured—tops were shrugged off without second thought by both girls and boys—and his own apprentice marked down measurements for under-armour.

A rather elegant and sensible solution to making sure the children wouldn’t go cold, that they had proper shoes and that they had some protection against anyone that raised a blade against them without removing what made them so successful and overlooked as street children.

Soldiers and retired knights kept an eagle eye on the children as they carefully matched them up with a training weapon—daggers, short-swords, long-swords, staffs.

One knight—retired almost as soon as he was knighted for the burns that twisted right side of his face and partly blinded him—stood towering over a slight elven girl as he led her with hands over her own how to move the staff, her pale blind eyes were narrowed from the force of her concentrated frown as she moved with her teacher.

A woman dressed in dark blue silks sat in a chair like it was her throne, a smile curling carefully painted lips as graceful slender hands gestured accented by the dainty white pipe in one hand and its curling smoke as she spoke to the small group surrounding her.

(“That’s my mother,” Alouette informed her softly, dark eyes assessing as she watched, and Caitlyn looked at the woman again.

Dark hair streaked through with silver pulled back from her face, make-up done with an expert hand and understated in a way that enhanced her looks, intelligent and watchful dark eyes that matched Alouette’s own dark eyes perfectly.

With a second look, it was rather obvious that the woman was the infamous Madame Mac Sullivan.)

A trio—two men and one woman—from one of the small Theatre Troupes of Highever had settled themselves on the floor with a spread of make-up near them as they spoke with their own group.

A woman, an herbalist, had carefully laid out a collection of potted common herbs, a stack of books beside her and a bag had untied and unfolded to show of different knives and scissors next to a pestle and mortar.

An elderly elven woman had her own cushion to sit on instead of a proper chain, a stack of books and another stack of chalk and boards were next to her as she spoke to her group of children—the twisting, though faded, tattoos on her face told Caitlyn just who the woman was without even being able to see the sea-glass blue eyes that she shared with her grandson as there was only one ex-Dalish living in Highever.

A small table had been placed almost in the middle of the hall and was occupied by three people; Caitlyn’s own Davia Cadash and Kenna’s Giles were across from each other with several books and notebooks between and around them—Giles’ sun-streaked hair was mess from a hand being roughly run through it and Davia’s brown hair was freely flowing down her back and getting in her face only to be brushed away with an impatient hand—while their companion, Lileas Surana, was rather serene in her own sit with her notebook open and several loose parchments as she wrote something with only the slightest frown on her face.

There was over twenty-five children—from the age of five (Alouette’s young cousin Benji) to fourteen—dotted around the room with a new golden pins attached to their tunics, a several more elven children were lingering near the door as they watched with curious and considering eyes—no doubt they will soon swear themselves into Kenna’s service after this show—all thin, all small, all had glanced at the table as if they had never seen food before in the lifes and was absolutely starving for it.

“What do you think?” Kenna looked up at her, proud and anxious at the same time, back straight in a warriors discipline instead of the lady-like posture that Caitlyn had, golden tanned hands twisting at her dark blue tunic, the small golden studs in her ears had been replaced with studs of a golden songbird clutching a laurel in its talons with the talons and laurels just hanging passed the lobe of her ears—not so sensible as the studs she wore before, but it wouldn’t hinder anything with her hair pulled braided and pinned in her usual style, and actually made her mother smile at the thought that Kenna had chosen something so lady-like to wear (she would be markedly less impressed if she learnt it was the personal heraldry that she had chosen for her Little Birds).

“Well done,” Caitlyn told her sister as she pulled her close in a hug. “I’m so proud.”

Kenna relaxed completely into the hug, arms wrapped themselves tightly around Caitlyn’s middle with the strength only daily and vigorous training could give her, and Caitlyn pressed a proud kiss on the top of Kenna’s fiery locks.

“However, did you manage to convince my mother to help you?” Alouette asked after a moment, dark eyes curious and assessing as Kenna pulled back from Caitlyn’s hug, but remained content in her sister’s arms.

“I think I amused her more than I convinced her,” Kenna answered thoughtfully, a slight frown to her brows. “We certainly made her laugh.”

Alouette hummed, her look more assessing as she looked around the large stone hall.

“You will have a very formidable force under your command in the future,” Alouette decided as she glanced at Kenna with her dark eyes. “How do you think you’ll manage that?”

“Giles will manage them for me,” Kenna shifted until only one of Caitlyn’s arms was around her shoulders and spoke without hesitation.

“You trust him that much?” Alouette asked with a hint of disbelief lilting her words, one fine dark brow raised at Kenna.

“Of course,” Kenna again didn’t hesitate, she spoke with complete faith in Giles before adding in a tone slightly tinted with familiar possessiveness—the same tone that Caitlyn and Fergus used when talking about Kenna, the same tone that Kenna used when she claimed Lileas, a tone that should be alarming, but wasn’t because that’s how Couslands were (Fortune favours the Bold, Couslands loved deeply, possessively, protectively, and with all the formidable will that once defied a would-be King—Bann Cousland hunted and drove out all the werewolves in their lands in their rage after losing one of their children to the beasts, Teyrna Elethea Cousland had waged war against Calenhad Theirin out of love for her people, had taken in an exiled dwarven House and spent thousands of sovereigns to safe-guard her family and people long after her death.). “He’s mine after all.”

“I see,” Alouette said slowly though it was clear she didn’t see.

* * *

 

Fergus hadn’t been surprised by the letter sent by Bran that told them he was extending his stay in Ostwick for several more weeks or maybe even a few months.

No doubt his little brother needed more time to brood—think—and Art deserved to spend as much time as possible with his family considering he had sworn himself as Bran’s First-mate and would spent his time at Bran’s side—at least until Bran turned away from the sea, until Bran reached out for a silver chalice, according to Kenna.

Kenna was taking the time to train her Little Birds—Cait hadn’t been impressed that he had known about Kenna’s budding spy-network and hadn’t told her—and Caitlyn had been thinking about taken on another project considering the Alienage was doing well under the watchful and expert eyes of House Cadash—she was thinking of taking over one of the unused warehouses near the docks and turn into a shelter for the homeless, probably moved after seeing the thin little things that had sworn themselves into Kenna’s service for a bit of food and coin and had been given so much more now that Kenna (Lileas) had access to more funds.

Fergus had decided to introduce Oriana to his sisters as he was half-certain he fell in love with the Antivan the moment he had fallen over her.

Oriana and Caitlyn had gotten on well as they were rather alike; both were beautiful, brilliant and bold when it came to getting what they want. Kenna was a slightly different matter.

Antiva had an idea about women that didn’t match up to reality but was still firm in their culture. In Antiva, it was considered ‘unthinkable’ for women to be taught to fight, to battle and wage war.

Kenna with her soft leather breeches, her midnight-blue tunic and dyed midnight-blue jerkin—something she had only recently ordered made and taken to wearing regularly—that showed off her golden tanned arms from hours under the sun and the firm muscles only regular combat training—training geared towards war—could give her and her fiery locks braided firmly and pinned flat around her head in a crown was far from what Antiva considered proper.

But Oriana had ignored her cultured ideal as she strived to get on with Kenna, and Kenna tried to meet her half-way despite the age gap, the cultural gap and the differences in their interests.

(“I can’t see her future,” Kenna had told him with a hint of frowny pout after Oriana had left, “I know she’s going to be my sister,” Fergus had flushed and Cait had smiled at him, a wicked glint in her blue eyes, “but I can’t see beyond that.”

There was frustration, a hint of fear and concern, and Fergus had gathered her close.

“You don’t have to know everything,” Fergus soothed her, and she had frowned at him harder.

“But what if something happens? What if she’s hurt or something, and I didn’t see it? It would be my fault,” Kenna had told him and Cait had curled one hand around the back of Kenna’s neck, squeezing slightly to get the younger girl to focus on her.

“It wouldn’t be your fault,” Caitlyn had told her seriously, and Fergus had nodded in agreement, tightening his arms around his little sister. “It would never be your fault, it would the fault of whoever hurt her.”

“I would never blame you if anything happened,” Fergus swore to her, and Kenna relaxed in his hold and under Cait’s hand.)

(Years later, Fergus will still believe that when he comes home with the knowledge that his parents and wife’s bodies hung from the walls of their home, a home occupied by enemies and once-friends, a home he would liberate.

Will still believe that when Oriana was cut down, her beautiful face was bloated and rotting, her body bare and bloody from the wounds that had turned black with rot, and not the sight he wanted burned into the mind of his son, hated that it was burnt in his.

No, Fergus would blame himself—why hadn’t he been firmer? What could he have said that would have kept her safe? Why didn’t he make her fully believe in Kenna and her dreams?—and he would blame Howe—how dare he?! He was father’s friend! How could he?!)

There is a peace within the walls of the castle;

Father did his duties, Mother split her time between making sure everything was ready for Bran and Art’s return and getting to know Oriana with a beaming smile, Caitlyn exchanged letters all over Thedas it seemed and sketched out her plans for shelters for the homeless, Kenna’s Little Birds grown and Lowever’s Training Hall One formally belonged to them—Giles (Giles Halfhand as he had taken to calling himself to spite everyone that looked down at him as a cripple) even took over one of the small rooms near it as a study, the arrogant little shit—and Fergus worked when he wasn’t meeting with Oriana.

Of course, it would be Kenna that broke the peace.

* * *

 

~ Caitlyn’s Study, Cousland Castle, Highever, 10th Solace 9:21 Dragon ~

There was a long moment of silence before Fergus turned to Caitlyn with a completely deadpan face.

“This can be your problem,” he informed his sister making her grimace as she rubbed her temples.

“Please repeat that, Kenna, I don’t think I heard right,” Caitlyn said as she rubbed her temples with slim fingers, a hint of desperation in her blue eyes, and Kenna’s jaw clenched and tilted in that familiar—damning—way.

“I’ve kidnapped them,” little Kenna informed them with one golden hand wrapped firmly around the thick grey wrist of the ‘them’ in question and Lileas completely covering her face with pale slender hands and the tips of ears turning red.

Towering over their baby sister, long white hair affixed in braids, twisted back and threaded beads of sea-glass, bits of shell and seabird feathers, dark horns curling like ram horns, quicksilver eyes staring down at the tiny slip of their sister with completely bafflement on their angular grey features and sending pleading glances over their shoulder at the older Qunari that had sprawled herself on one of Caitlyn’s divans and was watching with a grin on bisected-scarred lips and the same quicksilver eyes.

“Why?” Fergus decided to ask as Caitlyn closed her eyes in some kind of despair.

“Because they are mine,” Kenna informed them simply, possessive and protective, hand flexing around the wrist and the young Qunari gave them a pleading look that just screamed to save them from this madness please while their mother barked out a laugh, sharp looking white teeth catching the light.

Caitlyn and Fergus exchanged a look, a silent look of blame in each other’s eyes, before Caitlyn straightened with practised smile that was part wry as if saying ‘children, what can you do?’ and part apology as if to say ‘I am so sorry my sister has decided to kidnap your child, please don’t kill her’ in a way that only Caitlyn could convey.

“I am sorry about this,” Caitlyn spoke to the Qunari, obviously deciding to ignore Kenna for now and trying to smooth over what was happening.

“It’s fine,” the Qunari grinned, long white hair affixed in the same multi-and-thin braids threaded with beads of sea-glass, gold and silver with bits of shell and seabird feathers, horns covered in bands of beaten gold and silver as they curled like rams horns, wearing a sleeveless tunic under her opened jerkin that showed off her firm and rather large muscular arms covered in bold strokes of black that depicted stormy seas and ships all over them—dear Maker, please let her be a normal sailor and not a pirate, please don’t make it so Kenna decided to kidnap a pirate’s child—and a fist sized blue crystal hung from her neck by a chain of thick gold and silver interlocking and nestled between her breasts. “It’s the first time someone had the balls to tell me bluntly that they were kidnapping my kid and wasn’t going to give them because they were theirs now.”

Rosina let out a strangled sound behind Caitlyn, who had returned to rubbing her temples as if it could sooth the sudden tension headache she had developed, and Fergus took in the fierce look of pride on Kenna’s face as she tilted her chin just so because of course she would take that as a compliment.

“Yes,” Fergus coughed, “we’ll sort this out—”

“It’s already been sorted,” the mother grinned, fiendish delight clear in her quicksilver and sharp eyes. “The Little Lady Spitfire informed just how she was going to take care of my kid, I’m quite impressed really.”

Fergus felt his heart drop, Alouette’s strumming stuttered, and Caitlyn lifted her head to look at the mother.

“Mother,” the other Qunari whined, horror and pleading wrapped tightly around that single word.

“It’s fine Asaaranda,” their mother waved off with one strong hand, that fiendish grin still stretched across her mouth. “She going to let you train as a surgeon, just what you always wanted, and give you a fancy place to live as well.”

“You…you’re alright with this?” Fergus stumbled over his words and Asaaranda’s mother looked at them steadily, grin slipping from her face and replaced with a serious look.

“We’re Vashoth,” she informed them, “it may not be so dangerous for us as it was for my parents, but the Qun still hate us, still consider us lower than Bas, and Asaaranda’s father was Qun—if they figured out why he had tried to turn Tal-Vashoth then they could be in danger. Here they can be safe, safe from the Qun, safe from my enemies, they will have a good life—why wouldn’t I be alright with it?” she shrugged her massive shrugs at them as she watched them steadily, seriously. “Little Lady Spitfire already said I could come to visit, that we can exchange letters if we want.”

Asaaranda slumped their shoulders—Fergus should really ask what gender they were at some point—and pouted slightly as if finally realising that no help was coming from their mother’s quarter.

“I’ll protect Asaaranda,” Kenna declared in the ringing silence after the mother’s words, mismatched raging with the force of the sea, jaw clenched and set and hand tight around Asaaranda’s wrist.

The older Qunari studied her for a moment and a smile tugged at scarred lips, small and lopsided.

“Yeah,” she spoke, soft and steady as the waves that lapped at the beach, “I think you really would,” she turned her gaze to Caitlyn and Fergus, “I’m Asaara Adaar, by the way.”

* * *

 

_Kenna’s heart was beating fast— **like a drum of war, like the war that had been bought to her home, their safe haven** —as they fought their way closer to the kitchen— **the enemy was faceless, nameless to her eyes, but there was no escaping the sting of betrayal as she fought them** —and towards the place she had been dreaming about since she was four-years-old— **there was crashes from Davia’s traps going off, screaming being cut off, Asaaranda was safe in Lowever and ready to tend to the wounded**. _

_Despite herself, she hoped— **foolishly, naively** —that her father wouldn’t be like that— **that they hadn’t gutted him like an animal** —and tried to push away how Gilmore had said he was in a bad way— **why didn’t he listen? He never listened! Why couldn’t he listen for once?** _

_The glow-lamps were dim, the fire had been doused, the moonlight struggled through the narrow windows to show the mostly untouched kitchen— **there was profound sense of relief, an easing of her heart, Nan wasn’t here, she hadn’t chosen to be stubborn and had indeed gone to safety** —accept for the drops of blood she wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t looking— **hadn’t noticed before when she was four and terrified, she had been too close to emotions of the vision** —and she swallowed as she noticed the trail led to the partly open pantry door. _

_There was a glow spilling through the gap, different from the glow-lamps but no less magically in nature, and Mother didn’t hesitate a moment to push pass Bran, to open the door and walk through with long strides and a grim sense of determination— **part of her knew, she knew what lay behind that door, but she wouldn’t shy away from the truth, and part of her couldn’t help but hope that she was wrong, that she would walk through and he would be fine, that Ser Gilmore had been mistaken.** _

_“Bryce!” she called for her husband— **grief, hope, fury** —as she entered without faltering. _

_Bran faltered just behind Mother, standing in the doorway and staring— **he hadn’t believed, he hadn’t wanted to believe, oh Maker, why? How did they live with this knowledge? How did Kenna cope with seeing this?** _

_“There you all are,” Father’s voice was weak and wavering— **just like before, just like always, why wouldn’t he listen to her?** —and Kenna couldn’t stop herself from moving forward, dodging Cait’s hand as she reached out to restrain her— **it was easy to dodge Cait’s reaching hand, she had done it a dozen times in her dreams** —and ducking under Bran’s attempt to block the door— **he was off-balance, he didn’t know what to expect (hadn’t wanted to know) and it was hitting him hard, he didn’t have the foreknowledge needed to brace himself and it was showing** —a shadow of warmth at her back— **not Lileas, not someone she knew yet, but important and hers, and waiting for her to find them, they were new, their addition not just solid, not yet final like Lileas was** —and a crackle of magic just behind them— **Lileas, raging but composed Lileas, Lileas that had shown her cards to all as she pulled roots from stone and barred the way, she gave them time, needed time.**_

_The dark-haired man was there, glowing hands pressed to her father’s gut— **it couldn’t heal him, too much damage, but he could ease the pai** n—and Mother was already at his side, knees sticking into the pool of blood that was draining her husband of life— **Maker, she had hoped, but she knew, she knew it was going to be bad, but not this bad** —and she reached out for him with trembling hands to soothe him. _

_The Dalish was there— **she had never noticed him before, too caught up, too emotional, too young** —leaning against the wall of the pantry, a shine of sweat making his dark hair cling to his earth-toned skin turning the colour of milky-tea— **corruption in his blood, it burned, it was getting worse** —and his hand trembled just slightly around his sword— **but he didn’t drop it, couldn’t drop it surrounded by shemlen enemies**. _

_“I feared the worse,” her father— **her father, oh Maker, oh Maker, why? They had gutted him, they had hurt him so much, if they wanted to kill him so much why didn’t they make it a clean kill?** —coughed as blood bubbling at his lips and Mother’s breathing hitched as she kept back her tears— **mask cracking, emotions flowing, more real but distance because of Cait’s tea warm in her stomach, she saw more, learnt more, but it would hurt more in the end.** _

_“Don’t talk, my love,” Mother soothed him, carefully gathering him close and letting him rest his heavy head on her shoulder before she looked at the mage— **he was the first sign, Kenna had seen him and she had known, it was tonight, he was the herald of what was to come, the herald of blood and death, of the Blight in the South and war, and part of her blamed him for being symbol of all those things.** “Can he be moved?” _

_The man— **mage, recruit, Warden, brother** —grimaced as he leaned back on his heels, sky-blue eyes grim as he shook his head softly— **damningly** —though he didn’t remove his hands— **he couldn’t heal the wound, it was too severe, they had cut and twisted and pulled in a way he couldn’t heal, not quickly enough, he was bleeding out and Ci— couldn’t stop it, he could do nothing but ease the pain, and he would for as long as possible, he would not feel pain as he said goodbye to his family, Ci— swore to himself.** _

_“Father….” Kenna choked out, strangled by her own emotions— **grief, guilt, blame, rage** —and she could hear the strangled gasp of Cait behind her, the suppressed retch of Rosina hovering just behind Cait, felt Lileas move to press her shoulder against hers in a vain attempt to comfort her, the shadow behind her— **faceless, nameless, genderless, she didn’t know them yet, hadn’t found them** —awkwardly hovered behind, radiating warm and protective vibes._

_“Kenna,” Father reached out with one blood-stained hand— **they had gutted him again, they had gutted him like he was an animal and let him to die in pain, a slow and painful death** —and Kenna had to bite her lip bloody, so she didn’t scream— **she wasn’t four-years-old anymore!**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note; This is my longest chapter ever, and I hope you enjoy it. I was a bit hesitate about adding Adaar in, especially this chapter, but part of me always had Adaar in it and I hope that you enjoyed that scene.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_"People don't always tell the truth when you're polite. You've gotta poke them a bit,"_ –The Iron Bull, Leader of the Bull's Chargers, Ex-Ben-Hassrath, Companion of the Inquisitor, Agent of the Inquisition.

* * *

~ Caitlyn's Study, Cousland Castle, Highever, 10th Solace 9:21 Dragon ~

 _Giles_ , Lileas knew with certainty, _will never let me forget this._

 _Rosina_ , Lileas added as she felt her sister's burning gaze directed to the side of her head as she stayed beside her own Lady, _was going to scold me heavily the moment she's released from Lady Caitlyn's side._

 _Nan_ , Lileas had known the moment the elder woman arrived, taken one long look at the two Qunari in the room, at the way that Kenna had decided to use Asaaranda's lap as a pillow—after taking several sips from the enchanted flask that Lady Caitlyn had insisted she kept on her and filled, and ignoring the almost squawked protests—and was napping as Lady Caitlyn and Asaara Adaar hashed out details to be put in writing, before settling her unimpressed dark gaze on where Lileas was sat on the rug by the divan and quietly arranging the books that Lady Caitlyn was allowing Asaaranda to borrow as Fergus hesitantly informed the old nanny the basics of the Situation (it definitely need the capital letter at the beginning) and that Asaara would be now living with them before he scampered to inform his parents, _dearly wanted to tan both Kenna's and my bottoms red for this._

However, they hadn't been there, hadn't seen the way that Kenna had stilled, and her head snapped to follow the two Qunari with her gaze distance in a way that told Lileas she was seeing something else—somewhen else.

They hadn't seen the play of emotions that played across her face—surprise, affection, pure determination—and Lileas had barely realised where Kenna was staring before she was striding off with her jaw set and chin tilted stubbornly without even waiting.

Kenna hadn't even hesitated, had wrapped her hand around one thick grey wrist to the complete shock of Asaaranda, before she had turned to who could only be Asaaranda's mother with a look of blazing determination—the same look she had worn when she had strode into her father's study with Lileas' wrist in her grasp and declared that Lileas was going to be her lady-in-waiting, a look that dared her father to deny her—and declared in a firm voice and blunt tone just as Lileas arrived;

_"I'm kidnapping them,"_

Lileas would swear that her heart stopped as Asaaranda burst into offended protests and she only felt like she could breathe when Asaara Adaar took one look at Kenna—brightly blazing with determination, like the sun was trapped under her skin, her mismatched eyes flaring with all the power of the seas that they resembled, copper locks glinting like fire under the sun and chin tilted in stubborn defiance, a silent dare to deny her—and had laughed, a burst of loud and bright laughter that cut off her child's protests.

 _"Alright, Little Lady Spitfire, impress me,"_ Asaara had almost purred, teeth barred in a wicked grin, _"tell me why I should entrust my Thunderstorm to you."_

And of course, Kenna did. Because that was what she did, she spoke with firm conviction, with the strength of will to bend world to hers if it tried to defy her, tried to harm her own.

(One day, Kenna Cousland would make the world shake in her wake.

One day, when she raised her sword to fight and a thousand swords would raise to join her.

One day, when she spoke, people would listen, and her Will would be done.

One day, Kenna will look into the face of a would-be god, and she would dare him to make her kneel, she would defy him and his plans, and she would smile—barring teeth in a defiant and blood-thirsty grin, eyes filled with the untameable force of the sea, with copper locks burning like fire, left hand out-stretched and burning with power, a silent dare in the tilt of her chin as she planted herself firmly.

One day, Kenna Cousland would be known as a fighter of monsters, a slayer of would-be gods, a Herald of change.)

She spoke of a home, of learning to heal instead of just kill, of being hers and the protection she would freely share, she spoke of belonging, of safety, and Asaara Adaar listened and questioned and grinned as Kenna didn't falter, wouldn't falter when it came to providing for her own, and Asaaranda only looked half-tempted to throw Kenna off them as she spoke more, as she kept one hand wrapped tightly and protectively and possessively around their wrist in a familiar gesture—the gesture she had first used on Lileas, the gesture that was Lileas' first—and not protesting as Kenna dragged them back the Castle.

"What the—shit," Asaaranda cut themselves off as a burst of coppery iron infects her nose with its unmistakeable scent and Lileas' head jerks up as Kenna sat up, gasping for air and blood drippling down from her mouth, eyes wide and moist as she blinked and coughed on bloody salvia.

Lileas was there with a handkerchief to press against her bloody lips, knees digging harshly into the rather thin rug, Asaaranda assisting her by holding Kenna still as Lileas reached up and pressed firmly with the cloth.

"Kenna!" Lady Caitlyn's voice went high with worry and there was a thump as Alouette dropped her lute in surprise, but Lileas doesn't look away from Kenna. "Rosina, the red tin, Alouette, water."

Kenna who was pale, Kenna who had bitten through her lip, Kenna who was shaking as she breathed through her nose, Kenna whose gaze was distance and not there, Kenna who didn't seem to realise that bloody salvia would be dripping down her chin if Lileas wasn't there with a handkerchief to ruin with blood.

Suddenly, Lady Caitlyn was there next to her, skirts spreading around her as she knelt before the divan and reached out with gentle hands.

"Kenna?" Lady Caitlyn's voice was gentle in a way that she only used for her sister, and Kenna blinked at her, some awareness coming back in her gaze, a stray tear sliding down the curve of her cheek. "There you are," the smile that curls Lady Caitlyn's lips was small but encouraging. "I need you to rinse your mouth out, okay? Can you do that? Blink once for yes, and twice for no."

Kenna blinked once as Alouette handed the mug to Lady Caitlyn before the young bard stepped back with a hint of a frown and watchful dark eyes while Lileas removed the handkerchief so Lady Caitlyn could guide Kenna's shaking hands in holding the mug and rinsing out the blood from her mouth.

"Lileas," Rosina called softly, she glanced over her shoulder to see Rosina holding a small tin with a painted red top and nodded in understanding under her sister's look.

The two sisters switched positions as Kenna spat out bloody water back into the mug with a grimace as Rosina unscrewed the top of the tin to reveal a dark red paste.

"Open your mouth," Lady Caitlyn ordered, and Kenna did, her bottom lip was torn, and blood lingered on her teeth, and Lady Caitlyn began to dab the dark red paste on the still weeping lip. "This will clot your blood, it will help it heal faster."

"Really?" Asaaranda looked very interest, any hints of panic gone from their angular face, and peered over Kenna's shoulder so they could look at the small tin. "Can you teach me to make that?"

"I can teach you some things," a ghost of a smile curled at Lady Caitlyn's lips, "but I'm going to arrange for other teachers that can focus solely on you and teach you all they can, Asaaranda."

Lady Caitlyn leaned back, satisfied by what she had done, and Alouette was there to hand her a damp handkerchief to clean off her hands.

"Don't go licking it," Lady Caitlyn told her sister firmly, "it'll taste horrible and it needs time to work."

"What was that?" Asaara Adaar asked, quicksilver eyes sharp as she watched.

"My sister unfortunately suffers from night-terrors," Lady Caitlyn said as Alouette reached out to help her up, a calm mask and smile settling on her face though her eyes were still tight with worry. "It is why one of the first things that I would like Asaaranda to learn is a special tea of my own making that aids in her sleeping."

"The tea she drunk before she used my kid as a pillow?" Asaara questioned and Lady Caitlyn nodded. "How worse are they without the tea?"

"Let's just say that some Templars had to come and assure my parents that I wasn't a mage," Kenna said dryly as she reached out for Lileas.

Lileas stuffed the handkerchief in one pocket before taking Kenna's hands and allowing the noble girl to pull her on to the divan and curl around her, drawing comfort through physical touch.

A wince passed through Asaaranda and a shade of sympathy softened Asaara's quicksilver eyes.

"Yeah, Thunderstorm will learn that tea, right?" Asaara stated more than asked and Asaaranda nodded, a bit grumpily—they still weren't happy about their 'kidnapping'.

* * *

The scolding that Kenna got because of her 'kidnapping' Situation—from Father, Mother, Nan and Cait—was something that should be written down in the history books in Fergus' opinion—Fergus had no doubt that Kenna would end up with a whole book for herself by the time she died and her life as a Cousland was chronicled for future generations to enjoy and marvel over.

He was also pretty sure that the underlying message—that kidnapping was bad and no way acceptable—wouldn't stick, despite the hundreds of lines Kenna was assigned to write to sum that up—Lileas also had lines as she had allowed the Situation to come about that once again called Kenna her 'foolish Lady'—because Kenna had gotten what she wanted.

Asaaranda was going to stay with them—after days of Asaara Adaar going over terms and such with Father and Cait until it was all in writing just what Asaaranda would expect as a member of Kenna's personal household.

They had been given their own room beside Davia, was dressed in new clothes all in Kenna's colours—where it was found how that though Asaaranda was physically a boy, they didn't consider themselves one nor did they consider themselves a girl, they were just Asaaranda, and Maker have mercy on anyone that tried to give Asaaranda crap about their gender because then they had to deal with Kenna in all her fiery glory.

(Ser Kenneth had reportedly almost shed a tear in pride when Kenna got through a somewhat dense squire that didn't just stop at insults towards Asaaranda, but had insulted Kenna by calling her a silly little girl trying to act like a man during a spar, Kenna ended up kicking him in the balls so hard that a healer had to be called and had walked away with the biting comment of 'let's see how the silly little boy does trying to act like a woman')

And now Asaaranda wore a golden songbird clutching a laurel in its talons earring that hung from their left earlobe—the same symbol as the studs that Kenna wore, the same as what Lileas wore as a necklace, that Giles wore pinned to the collar of his new jacket, that the Little Birds wore, an unsubtle claim that boiled down to Kenna saying 'mine'.

("She's going to end up kidnapping someone else," Fergus informed Oriana during lunch one day as he rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"At least she is a very polite kidnapper, si?" Oriana commented wryly, a spark of humour in her dark eyes as she watched Fergus groan.

"This is our fault," Fergus bemoaned, "Cait and I didn't teach her that being so damn possessive over people were wrong—we reinforced the idea that it was normal."

"You best make sure our child doesn't turn out as unruly as your first," Oriana decided, and Fergus spluttered out the drink he had been sipping making Oriana look at him in great amusement as she raised a single eyebrow. "Come now, you don't honestly think I am not going to marry you after you fell so prettily for me?"

Fergus spluttered for a second time, red faced, to Oriana's gleeful laugh—he didn't even get a chance to protest that Kenna wasn't his kid, though he was certain that if he said that then Oriana would look at him with fond pity at his 'obviously sad attempt at lying' as she had in the past.)

Fergus had ended up writing a lengthy letter filled with whole Situation, the almost catlike unrepentance that Kenna showed, how Asaaranda had decided they didn't mind the whole kidnap thing much as soon as Cait's surgeon acquaintance—a Lawrence Bellerose, who had graduated from the University of Orlais, that decried humourism as a load of bull—arrived with dozens upon dozens of detailed diagrams (that almost made Fergus squirm just to look at them, because they were too damn detailed), books and tools to aid in his teaching of Asaaranda on everything a proper surgeon should know, and sent it off to Bran in Ostwick.

Almost two weeks later a bird arrived with his response.

_"Ha!"_

The passive-aggressive petty little shit.

Fine, fine, Bran wanted to be petty? Well, Fergus could be petty too.

When Bran came back with his questions, well, Fergus would answer them, and he would prove Kenna's….gift by letting him know that he knew that Bran was a sword-swallower.

(Fergus had never really forgiven Bran for being the cause behind four-year-old Kenna's questions—demanding too much detail for his comfort—about the different types of love there was and her attempts to understand how they expressed themselves physically, and he had never really forgiven Cait for watching him squirm with barely hidden hilarity as Kenna continued to ask questions starting with why or how and stubbornly refusing to listen to his pleas that she would learn or understand when she was older.)

* * *

~ War Room, Lowever, 25th Solace 9:21 Dragon ~

Despite the fact that the Alienage elves had made Lowever their home for the next decade or so, Lowever was now being considered Kenna's.

It was Kenna's Little Birds that used the Training Hall and the armoury near it.

It was Kenna's Giles that had taken over one of the rooms near said area and turned it into his own office—it had a large map of Lowever (that he had drawn himself) hanging behind his desk (he had yet to enlighten Kenna as to where he got all the furniture in his office from).

It was Kenna's Little Birds that found the room containing the long neglected 'garden'—a room that was closest to the surface and using a series of mirrors on pulleys and such was able to bring the sun down below and onto the long patch of earth (apparently how Orzammar wasn't solely reliant on trade with the surface to feed their people), that had an enchanted well and runes etched into the walls to keep the temperature level—and took it over to plant their own private collection of herbs and such for their own personal use under the watchful gaze of Herbalist Jolecia—who Kenna had hired to teach them and was rather pleased that she could teach them how to tend to their own plants as well as to make salves and such from them.

It was Kenna's Lileas that had taken control of one of the more isolated rooms where she took private lessons with Mirwen—if any of the elves wondered about what those lessons were, if any of the Little Birds figured out what those lessons were for, none of them said anything.

While Lawrence Bellerose had been hired by Cait, it was for Kenna's Asaaranda and thus the rooms he had claimed to teach them—a morgue enchanted by runes to keep it cool, a work room with a stone table and a grate in the floor for the blood to be washed down, a study filled with books and a room that would later be turned into an infirmary when Surgeon Bellerose was happy with Asaaranda's understanding of the body's working and was ready to move on to teaching them how to treat the living (he was a big believer on learning how the body worked before trying to fix it)—were still considered as hers.

So, perhaps considering that, it wasn't that surprising that Kenna had found herself sprawled on the table in what she considered the War Room as she thought.

She needed time to herself, time away, and where better to go then somewhere that was hers?

Where Giles was shut up in his office doing Maker knows what, where Lileas was attending her private lessons with Mirwen, where Asaaranda was probably watching Surgeon Bellerose cut into some recently deceased prisoner that had been kindly donated to him.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost see pieces of her dreams—the future—that centred in this room, unfold around her.

Fergus—older and weary—standing with his hands braced on the table as he looked at the maps of Highever and its surrounding area, a pink scar running from his temple into his thicker beard, grief putting lines on his face and an air of responsibility attempting push down his strong shoulders though he refused to buckle under the pressure.

Ser Morgan standing before the table, arms folded behind her back, a frown pulling on her lips and stress and grief lined her face, a bloodied badge pinned to her tabard that marked her as the new Commander of the Highever Forces.

Giles leaning his hip against the table, sharp pale eyes reading several reports that made him either smirk or frown as plans and plots began to take shape inside his mind.

Art Trevelyan standing across from Ser Morgan, frown on his face as he carefully placed the figures of ships along the sea, showing and plotting out the sea-battles the Navy of Highever and reinforcements from the Storm Coast was engaging in—Kenna almost shivered as she almost felt a phantom hand move through her to move each figure, a feeling that was in her head and not real.

Kenna opened her eyes and stared up at the stone ceiling, mentally pushing away the figures of the future, they weren't really helping.

Kenna had a power, a power that she didn't totally understand, a power she really hadn't tried to understand.

Yes, she saw the future in her dreams, but she also sometimes just knew things and that was without going into the whole thing of seeing phantoms of some peoples' future-selves, or how her dreams had changed to include not just her own future thoughts but also the subject of the dreams feelings and basic thoughts.

( _corruption in his blood, it burned, it was getting worse, he wanted to claw at his skin, claw until tainted blood was gone from his body._ )

( _A bloody hand placed on a keystone, lyrium singing as it powered up with blue and red light, he waited patiently for them to come, to try and collar him, to turn him into their pet Tranquil._ )

( _How dare he, a repeated chant in her mind filled with rage that ran both hot and cold as she stood before the monster as her cousin—sister—wept softly with his bloody seed trailing down her legs._ )

And that little change had terrified her, the sudden change without warning.

The seeing future-phantoms, had a warning, a click in her mind, a key opening a lock, but she had no warning when it came to her dreams. She was still getting used to the change, to knowing more on a different level then just seeing.

Part of Kenna was afraid, but she firmly squashed that fear, stubbornly forced it down, because she was Kenna bloody Cousland and she wouldn't lose herself to her own power, her own 'gift'.

Kenna frowned up at the ceiling.

She needed to learn more about her power, had to train it, and she would have to relay mostly on herself as her power was rather unique and there was no one that could teach her all the ins and outs like Mirwen could with Lileas—even if she liked seeing what Kenna and Lileas thought up themselves which was completely different to things she was taught.

The power was part of her, as part of her as magic was part of Lileas, so that surely meant that she could feel it if she tried like Lileas could internally reach out for the wild warmth of her magic.

Perhaps if she could feel it, touch it as it were, then that could help her understand it more, right?

Kenna nodded mostly to herself as she closed her eyes, breathing in deeply and letting it out slowly as she tried to focus, tried to search for something she wasn't sure was there or like, but she was going to try.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Kenna remembered a few months ago, remembered Lileas in the hallway and hearing the click in her mind as she stared at the elf, when she hadn’t had the time to wait for dreams, when she was forced to make a choice then and there—there hadn’t been a choice, not really, not when the phantoms of Lileas was either dressed in her colours (wearing her personal heraldry, unquestionably hers in a way that no one could deny) or dead/Tranquil—when her choice was either to ignore or for her to hold on with everything she had—she hadn’t hesitated for a moment, she grabbed hold with all the tenacity that made people call her Spitfire, and she would never let go.

She thought of that click, the mental image she had of a key turning in a lock, and mentally looked for the door, the door to her powers and she focused solely on that door, focused on opening the door and stepping through, and—

She was falling. Falling into nothingness, into everything, falling into a whirlwind of voices and images.

 _Is this what being the Three-eyed Raven is like?_ The absurd and nonsensical thought crossed her mind as she fell, because she didn’t know why because what did that even mean?

(It was not the first time some bizarre thought crossed her mind, like she was remembering something she read about or heard, and she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever know why)

(Gasping for breathing, a wet sound to each exhale, Lileas’ face twisted in horror and grief, the ground trembling beneath them, pale hands pressed against her.

Asaaranda beside her, barking orders with their hair piled back into a braid bun, a large hand gripping her chin, hard and burning quicksilver eyes staring straight at her.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” Asaaranda almost roared the order.

Black taking over her vision, stealing away her air, a numb coldness taking over her limbs. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

 _Oh, I’ve died before,_ Kenna thought in a moment of clarity before she was gone, deaf to the tears and wails, ignorant of the spikes of earth that encircle where she had fallen, the fire breaking through the ground, the creeping frost and the storm raging as Lileas almost loses herself fully to her grief.)

 _“We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment…..and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.”_ A woman’s wizen voice called out, drowning out the whirlwind, giving her something to anchor herself to.

This abyss was her mind, was her power, and she wouldn’t surrender to it, wouldn’t let it break her, she was Kenna bloody Cousland, and she was going to bloody-well soar!

She landed, not with a crash, not with broken body, but on her own two feet and tried to focus on her breathing, keeping it even and calm as she remembered this was still her mind, she hadn’t really fallen for what seemed forever—she could wake up at any moment if she wanted to.

It’s a roar that broke her from her breathing, she turned and gaped as she realised what was happening.

An ogre—flesh blackened and twisted, large horns twisting upwards, dressed in blackened and roughly beaten armour with skulls hanging from its belt—was charging across the ground.

A woman— _young, short black hair and familiar sky-blue eyes_ —lunged out of the way and Kenna blinked as the scene distorted.

One second it was a young man— _short black hair and the same sky-blue eyes_ —ready to defend his mother with his board-sword.

The next it was a young woman— _dark hair curling to frame her face, golden amber eyes like a bird of prey_ —with a staff in one hand and the other calling forth fire.

The ogre either blocked the sword with his metal around one arm or it ran through the fire without notice.

Either was it ended the same way, the person grabbed and smashed into the ground as fragile bones break loudly making Kenna cringe as a mist of foamy blood was pushed out of pale lips in one last surprised and painfilled breath.

A mother’s scream, the woman from before— ** _face twisted with grief and rage and tears in her sky-blue eyes, but not falling_** —leaping on to the ogre’s back with twin daggers ready, of the other person moving to flanking them— ** _tears coming from golden amber eyes and pale lips opened in a silent scream, a scowl creasing his strong features as sky-blue eyes burnt with hatred and grief_** —and then it was over, the beast slayed and the sibling still dead.

Kenna blinked and the mother was cradling her dead child, calling their name with a wretched pain, the surviving sibling— _surviving twin_ , something told her—comforting her and then the eldest sister began to reach out.

 _“We can’t stay here anymore, Mother,”_ her voice was thick with tears as she spoke their name, _“—wouldn’t want you—”_

 _“What I want is my child alive,”_ the mother snapped, grieving rage twisting her face as she glared at her eldest, _“this your fault! How could you let this happen?!”_

The mother turned back to her dead child, gentle hands cupping their face, not waiting for an answer and ignorant to way her eldest recoiled from her like she had been stabbed, fresh pain blossoming across pale features, a reaching comforting hand falling limp at her side.

“Can I change this?” Kenna asked into the air thick with grief, with blood and taint because it was obvious she was shown this to change it.

Kenna blinked and the scene changed around.

She was in the ruins of some great fortress, people in armour walked swiftly around and even through her—like she was nothing, but a ghost, like one of her future phantoms—and Kenna turned to take it all in; the sound of dogs barking, of the Chant of Light falling from Reverend Mothers’ lips, the distance pained groans and the wails of the injured, of soldiers nervously checking their weapons and armour, the sight of humans, elves and dwarves walking around with purpose, of bright tents, of the phantom tingle of magic against her skin.

And then she stopped and stared.

There was Lileas—older, dressed in an armoured jerkin under a thick leather jacket, leather leggings and a flare of a skirt with no front that stopped at her calves and a glaive strapped to her back—walking beside someone that was unmistakeably Kenna.

Older, taller than Lileas—which meant she wasn’t going to be small all her life—and dressed in thick—but moveable—leather trousers, a studded leather cuirass over a thick midnight blue tunic and under a thick leather jacket—all dyed the same midnight blue as Lileas’, her shade of blue—with twin short-swords belted across her back, a small knife strapped to her belt and a hilt of a dagger peeking out of each sturdy boot.

There was a shadow at the other hers’ back—choice not yet made, chances not yet taken—and then the other her was reaching out, gloved hands wrapping around the arm of a passing soldier causing his companion to halt too.

The other her glances her way, almost directly at her, and Kenna moved forward quickly, realising it was the young man— _ **blue eyes burning with hatred and grief, blue eyes blank in death**_ —and his elder sister beside him— _ **grief and rage battling on a pale face, tears almost falling from sky-blue eyes**_ —as she got closer.

 _“What?”_ he scowled at the other Kenna, looking down at her with his superior height—she still wasn’t the tallest person, but she had years of growth in her, Kenna reminded herself.

 _“Lady Cousland?”_ the elder sister questioned, her tone confused as she hovered protectively over her brother, fine dark brows furrowed over familiar sky-blue eyes— _not so defensive as her younger brother, but still ready to defend._

 _“You shouldn’t confront ogres head on,”_ the other her told them bluntly, her voice still hers, but different, deeper perhaps? More mature obviously. _“Flank them, attack from behind, blind them if possible, don’t let them grab hold of you.”_

 _“Why are you telling us this?”_ the sister demanded, baffled as her brother scowled at the other her in confusion and some suspicion.

 _“Because it may save yours or your twins’ life,”_ the other Kenna told the brother more than the sister with none of the tact Cait would have shown, and Lileas gives that little sigh—as if she was asking the Maker, why—as her hands twitch as if she wanted to bury her face in her hands like she had done several times already because Kenna has done something, well, Kenna-like.

He almost ripped his arm out of the other Kenna’s grasp, pale with burning distrustful blue eyes as he stared at her, and his sister stepped forward, mouth curling into a snarl and the same blue eyes burning with fierce protectiveness, a question of dark red lips.

Kenna blinked and the scene changed again.

An ogre roared as it charged.

The mage pushed the mother back as they retreated from the charging beast, the brother lunged away, and the sister rolled.

Fire directed at the eyes, daggers flashing as the sister leapt, a board sword sinking into tainted skin under a raised arm.

The beast slayed, the siblings lived, the mother relieved, and Kenna watched it all with an air of satisfaction and mild confusion.

“Why is she important?” Kenna asked, mismatched gaze focused on the elder sister, the one that survived both times, because she had to be important in some form or another.

Kenna had fallen into the abyss of her own mind, had been buffered by the whirlwind that was her own power, and when she had decided to fly, it had been here, to this sister and her grief, that she had be brought.

So, there had really been one question, the question of why.

Why should Kenna care for this stranger with familiar sky-blue eyes, with a short raven mane to frame her face that was fiercer then soft and pretty like her younger sister’s face? Why should she care about her grief? Her pain? Why did she have to see and what to change things?

People died every day, her parents were going to die, a war was coming against monsters from history, and Kenna couldn’t really afford to care about everyone, couldn’t care about those that weren’t hers, because it would rip her apart, it would make her break in a different way to what her powers would because she wouldn’t be able to save them, not all of them, and Fergus had told her—again and _again_ —that she couldn’t save everyone, that it wasn’t possible.

The future Wardens were important, they would be kin to Bran and thus family, Cait and her friends were family, Fergus was family and he would be fighting to free their home, Lileas, Giles, Asaaranda and her Little Birds were family.

This young woman with sky-blue eyes the same colour, the same shape, as Bran’s future lover’s eyes, the mage that would kneel beside her father and attempt to help, the mage that had been torn between loyalties, had been forced to choose, and still had to leave despite making the right—if painful—choice, wasn’t family to Kenna even if she was family to him, so that had to mean that she would be important.

She blinked and the scene changed once again, ready to show her why. A grand hall with steps leading up to a dais, the décor influenced by Orlais.

There are half-a-dozen Qunari standing on the dais that are letting weapons drop from their hands, a grim look of dissatisfaction on each face as Templars moved to take them.

Below them stood the woman, bloodied and victorious, older and burdened, over the body of a Qunari with several majestic horns with blood still wet on her twin daggers.

A crowd of nobles are huddled together, relief settling on pale faces and some cry quietly as they hug and stare with pure gratitude towards the elder sister.

 _“Well,”_ an older woman marched forward, a Templar of high rank with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair, a twist to her mouth that could be seen as a smile, blue eyes taking in the woman, assessing and reassessing, _“it looks like Kirkwall has a new Champion.”_

The Hall rings with cheers as the Templar looked at the sister like she was a new threat and the sister looked around at the hall as another burden was placed upon her shoulders as she was handed a title, a burden, a chain around her shoulders and affixed to her neck, as the woman that named her looked at her as a potential enemy.

The sister looked at the Templar, sky-blue eyes fierce, and tilts up her chin in a mockery of a proud motion— ** _there was no pride in her eyes, she had just killed someone she hadn’t wanted to, had saved a city to protect her family and friends, had another enemy ready to circle her and those she loved while pretending to hail her, this wasn’t the time for pride_**.

 _“Yes,”_ her voice was pitched to sound easy, to sound proud and in control, to inspire confidence in the relieved nobles, _“I suppose it does.”_

_**For her family, for her friends, she would be Kirkwall’s Champion.** _

Kenna looked at this Champion of Kirkwall; fierce sky-blue eyes, a pale face with a sharp jaw and cheekbones, lips stained a red almost deep enough to match the blood red parts of her buckled black and red armour, short raven wispy hair framing her face.

A Champion of Kirkwall, a champion of a city-state across the sea, and somehow she was important.

Perhaps Kenna would go to Kirkwall one day, meet this Champion.

Kenna opened her eyes.

A stone ceiling greeted her gaze, the stone table under her leeched at her warmth, her head ached horribly, and she felt tired.

“Huh,” Kenna blinked as she rubbed at her temple before she turned her head to the side and reached out mentally to the hint of an itch that was familiar.

The Champion of Kirkwall appeared in front of her after a breath, standing before the table and staring at her with those familiar eyes, and Kenna took in the woman curiously.

The phantom of the Champion was older than the young woman facing the ogre, older than she was standing over the corpse of that Qunari, and there was something about her, the look in her sky-blue eyes, the shape of her dark red lips, that made something in Kenna to itch, made her uncomfortable.

 _The Champion, she looked tired,_ Kenna decided after a moment of staring, studying, taking in the dark shadows under once fierce and burning sky-blue eyes, there was something brittle in them, a slump to proud shoulders and downward twist of dark red lips that looked pale under the stain of red.

The future, Kenna decided, would do its best to break the Champion, and Kenna couldn’t tell by looking at her phantom-self if it succeeded or failed, but came very close.

Kenna considered the phantom before her— _worn and weary, tired and burdened, a crack in her strength, a weakness to her that wasn’t there before_ —and let her fade with an almost bitter taste in her mouth.

 _It didn’t seem right_ , Kenna thought, _to see the Champion look so defeated._

 _But_ , she reminded herself firmly, _a Champion was a Hero and heroes never had a happy and carefree life._

Kenna decided with firm certainty that she never wanted to become a hero.

(One day Kenna would be considered a legend.)

* * *

Ostwick was different, different from the Storm Coast and more importantly it was different from Highever, something that made it easier for Bran to think—brood, according to Art—about his family, about Fergus and Cait and Kenna in between meeting Art’s family.

He had vague memories of Aunt Emogen from when she had last visited when Cait was around four, but those didn’t really match the woman he met.

She was thicker around the hips and stomach than Bran’s mother was, the evidence of birthing six healthy children compared to Mother’s four and looked rather short standing next to her towering husband that proved that Art didn’t inherit his height solely from Grandfather.

Her blonde hair—streaked with silver—seemed to have a darker shade than what he remembered Mother having and the blonde that Cait had inherited, a darker blonde that only her second daughter, Jenifry, had inherited—a wheat shade compared to Cait’s pale gold.

Her smile had almost been blinding with the overwhelming joy it held when Art stopped before her and she had done her best to break the ribs of her second son with the force her hug—the force enough that made Art wheeze slightly as he hugged back so she was part way to breaking his ribs, Bran thought.

Bran had gotten used to feeling short next to Art and his grandfather, but he had never felt short next to a woman before he met his female cousins—Anwen, Jenifry and Melwyn—that inherited both their grandfather’s and their father’s height—Anwen and Jenifry were just shorter than Art and Melwyn matched Bran’s height despite being several years younger than him.

Anwen had smiled down at him, long dark hair framing her rather pretty face, while Jenifry had almost mockingly cooed at him with her wheat-blonde hair pulled back in a braided bun—“Isn’t our little cousin cute, An?” Jenifry had cooed as she wrapped one strong arm around Bran’s shoulders and looked over at her sister with gleeful stormy-green eyes, Anwen had smiled fondly and a bit mischievous as she had replied; “You’re right, Jen, he is rather cute.”

(Ewan, seven-years old and the youngest, had gave him a look of deep felt empathy and sympathy as he hovered next to his mother—he was more than a head taller than Kenna, something that would no doubt annoy his little sister if she knew that her slightly younger cousin was still taller than her—as he was obviously used to having the force of his sisters’ attention focused on him, though his sympathy and empathy was slightly tainted by the relieved glee dancing in his stormy-green eyes as he watched Jenifry pinch Bran’s cheek with that mocking coo of hers while Anwen watched with a smile.)

Melwyn hadn’t bothered to give him more than a glance with familiar stormy-green eyes—eyes that all the Trevelyan siblings shared over their father’s dark golden-brown eyes—before she was challenging Art to a spar—she had tossed her head back angrily, dark hair pulled back sharply in a thick single warrior braid, when she complained that her father was still denying her the possibility of becoming a Templar as she near badgered Art to agree to a spar.

Lorcan, the eldest and heir, had greeted him with a rather startling quiet voice compared to his size—he was taller than Art, but not as muscular, more tall and slender than tall and board like Art.

It was nice, really it was, meeting his cousins, talking with his uncle, catching up his aunt about how his mother was doing, watching Art be welcomed back into the fold.

But it also highlighted just how different things were with Fergus, Cait and Kenna and their parents.

Things were different than what Art remembered, but that didn’t stop him from settling back in, there was no secrets kept from him, none of his siblings looked at him like he was a danger.

And yeah, Bran may have been a bit pissed off as he thought about the look that Cait gave him, the warning that Fergus uttered, the fact that Kenna was too ‘busy’ for him to get to know again.

But watching Melwyn train, watching his cousins train, Bran had noticed something.

Kenna trained every weekday, she only had the weekends off, and she spent hours in the yard everyday getting her ass kicked by Ser Kenneth and her tanned skin bruised, but she didn’t give up, didn’t whine or cry, she just got back up and kept going.

There was a sense of desperation to Kenna’s training, a look in her eyes that was determined and fearful, and it was something that was completely absent in his cousins’ eyes, in Bran’s and Art’s eyes when they trained.

Kenna trained like she was preparing for war, trained like if she didn’t then she was going to die. She was seven-years-old, she wasn’t meant to be that aware of how fragile life was, she wasn’t meant to be training for war when Ferelden was at peace—fragile and still new though it was with Orlais.

She wasn’t the only one though.

Bran remembered coming across Caitlyn with her bow and how she spent several hours every over day practising with her bow, twisting and moving, learning to shoot while moving.

It had been startling, it had been something that stuck in Bran’s mind, because Cait had never had much interest in weapons training when she was younger, she had preferred her more scholarly studies to learning how to handle a weapon.

But she now she was putting time in it, putting time in learning how to handle her bow with combat in mind instead of just using as an exercise to keep her skills sharp.

She had her lady-in-waiting, Rosina Surana, learn to fight with daggers and not just to defend herself, but to actually fight and kill.

That meant something, it all meant something, and Bran was missing something.

Something, he thought almost grimly, he would have to actually ask Fergus about.

He wondered if that something was connected to whatever reason Kenna had for ‘kidnapping’ a Qunari child. Somehow, he got the feeling that it did.

Bran would sit down with Fergus and ask the moment he got home.

So of course, his return home would be delayed, of course the moment he decided to sail for home some raiders decided they were going to prey on the ships crossing between the Free Marches and Ferelden, and of course Bran couldn’t help from leading his crew against them.

He was successful, had captured their ships, and caught the attention of the Crown as he did it as word spread about him with the moniker of the Storm Raven.

Home would have to wait, apparently Bran had to go to Denerim first to be honoured by the King and Prince.

(In Highever, Kenna woke up with a gasp and a heavy blush on her face as she firmly pushed away her dream. She did not want to know what her brother and the Prince was going to get up to behind closed doors, she never wanted to see that much of her brother again and would frankly prefer a different warning of the future, please and thank you.

Firmly ignoring her last dream, firmly ignoring the way her cheek were burning hot, Kenna curled around one of her pillows and firmly closed her eyes—she better not have to deal with a dream like that again!)


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_“I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”_ –King Cailan Theirin of Ferelden.

* * *

_He hung there, above them, bloodied and bared to the chill and the snow with spears and arrows pinning him in place._

_His hips and the lower part of his torso was crushed like a parchment bag in ones’ fist, his grey eyes were still intact— **the birds kept away from here, the darkspawn’s foul taint kept them at bay and stopped them picking at the dead that had been left behind to rot and freeze when the survivors had fled** —and staring blankly in death from beneath his loose and bloodstained golden hair._

_Kenna swallowed thickly as she stared upwards, appalled by what they done, they hitched him up like a trophy to show off— **but she had known for years, had foreseen this before she had even known him** —and wrapped her arms around her waist as she stared upwards with a warm shadow— **her shadow, always hers—** at her back and Lileas at her side._

_“Cailan!” the name was almost dragged out of Bran as he stumbled forward, blue eyes wide and agonised as he stared upward— **she had argued against Bran coming, had said he shouldn’t come, that only death remained and he didn’t need to see it, but Bran hadn’t listened, he had to come, he had refused to listen even when Kenna had begged him to reconsider and Cait had cautioned him, Bran was a Cousland after all and stubborn when he set his mind to something.** “We have to get him down!”_

_There was a completely wrecked tone to her brother’s voice that she hadn’t heard since they had to flee Highever and made camp that first night, when it had sunk in that their parents were dead and they wouldn’t be seeing home for months, and it made her want to close her eyes in sympathetic pain._

_Their family loved deeply, fully and without hesitation. Their love was all consuming, possessive and protective, and Bran had loved Cailan despite the doomed nature of their affair._

_Even with Ci—, even with Bran falling in love with his compassionate mage lover more each day, he still loved Cailan— **his first love** —and she never wanted to see the reality of this moment. _

_Kenna had liked Cailan, had cared for him, despite her best efforts and her complete certainty that he would die, that he would one day be left as a mockery of a trophy for her and others to discover, and it hurt her to see him like this, to see the reality of this moment._

_“Bran,” Ci— hesitated, sky-blue eyes conflicted as he hesitated on the verge of moving forward, in offering comfort, but unknowing if his lover would accept it._

_“He’ll have to wait,” Du— said gruffly, a hint of an apology in his tone, as he turned with his battle-axe ready as he stared grimly at the lone genlock at the end of the bridge that was staring at them almost curiously with a hint of a wicked grin on its rotten twisted face. “Because we have trouble.”_

_The darkspawn chuckled, the gleeful sound twisted and wrong in a way that sent shivers down the spine, as it raised one of its hands as dark magic twisted around him, befouling the air around him worse than the taint his very presence held._

_Lileas hissed like a disgruntled cat as the bodies of soldiers— **partly rotted, partly frozen, blackened with both** —across the bridge rose with the movement of the darkspawn’s hand, standing with jerky movements of the living undead and picking up swords and such to arm themselves as empty dead eyes turned to them— **she bloody hated necromancers, hated fighting against undead as they didn’t feel anything, they were empty shells, puppets following the desire of their master, fire and beheading was the only thing that truly worked on them.**_

_“Forgive us, my king,” Al— said softly as he shifted and readied for the approaching corpses with a hard expression on his face— **familiar, familiar, so Maker damned familiar, she knew that face, had seen other men wearing that face, but where?** —“once we’ve flushed the darkspawn from their holes and brought ourselves some time, we’ll be back to see you to the Maker.”_

_Lileas’ gem glowed as flames burst to life across the blades of their weapons while Wy— frowned harshly and placed down glyphs with each tap of the butt of her staff against the stone and Ci— turned away from Bran to ready himself, fire curling around his left hand as he held his staff solely in his right._

_Bran hesitated, staring up at Cailan with a torn look._

_“Bran!” Kenna snapped as she stepped forward with burning swords, one thrust through the corpses’ chest while the second hacked off its head, tugging her first sword loose harshly and she met the next corpse with a warm shadow— **her shadow, hers, but they haven’t made up their minds yet, hadn’t yet taken the chances or made the choices that would lead them to her, they were going to keep her waiting, but they would never leave her** —at her back ready to flank beside her as Lileas’ glaive was thrust forward into the blackened neck of another corpse, taking off the head with one firm tug of her glaive to the side, severing frost-bitten muscle and skin._

_Bran turned, tears in his eyes and face twisted with grief and rage as he fell against the corpses with his sword and shield ready._

* * *

~ Kenna’s Bedroom, Cousland Castle, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~

She woke with a start and twisted as she gagged on the phantom smell of rot and taint that was thick enough she could taste it, her night-dress that clung to her back from her cold sweat that reminded her of early snow and blackened corpses in damaged and rusted armour.

Kenna gagged again, feeling bile crawl up the back of her throat, and near threw herself out of her bed, bare feet padding harshly on the cold floor as she ducked behind the divider on quick feet and almost throw herself on the floor before the toilet just in time for bile to splatter into the water.

“Kenna!” Lileas called out in concern, voice still thick from sleep, before her slim hand was on her back and rubbing in soothing circles as Kenna spluttered and coughed with her hands gripping tightly to the stone toilet and her knuckles turned white from the force.

Kenna groaned, it had been years since she was sick because of her dreams/visions— _her father’s blood heavy in the air, coating her tongue, the smell as acid and such ate at him, the sight of his guts slipping between his fingers_ —but it had been awhile since she had seen anything as close to as bad as that.

Sir—whoever she was killing that noble? Kenna had easily shrugged that off because she had felt what the elf felt— ** _rage, disgust, her cousin crying, how dare he!_**

She had seen her father’s coming death so many times that it only made her cry, turn to link her hand with Lileas’ and full back into fitful sleep.

The Joining? Tame, it was the feelings that it invoked— ** _Bran chaining himself to the land,_** _poisoning himself willingly in exchange for their safety **, the Commander watching with steady and impassive dark eyes,** rage and hate at the sound of his calm voice **,** how dare he, how could he **, a milky tea-coloured hand trembling as he took his chance, a mage steeling himself as he damages himself to either instant death or slow poison instead of a brand placed on his forehead, bodies falling, but chest still moving with clear breath.**_

Seeing the grown and very dead version of who she knew was Pince Cailan— _grey eyes staring under bloody golden locks, Bran’s wrecked voice, **he loved him** , loved him despite everything_—despite the fact she wasn’t going to meet him until sometime either today or within the next few days hung up like a trophy with undead— _jerking movements, blackened skin, rusted armour and bloodied blades_ — _under the unmistakeable command of a darkspawn—the legends were true, the stories were true, they weren’t gone, a Blight was coming and she would fight against it_ —was enough to send her stumbling for the toilet.

(An ingenious invention made possible by clever piping and runes, truly a chamber-pot would have made her shudder as she was used to toilet— _but why was she used to toilets? She didn’t understand._ )

Lileas’ hand was hot against her chilly skin, hot as she rubbed comforting circles as Kenna leaned her sweaty forehead against the stone in front of her.

There was a creak as the door opened behind them, a curse before the glow-lamps turn on with their dimmest glow as shuffling footsteps head towards them.

“I’m regretting talking with Cadash now,” Asaaranda’s voice was rough with sleep as they come close. “I am also really starting to dislike your Prince, Lady Spitfire.”

Kenna just let out a groan in turn, she was still glad that Asaaranda had left off the little bit when they took on their mother’s nickname for Kenna as their own.

“Come on, sit up,” Asaaranda ordered as they crouched downside her after Lileas shuffled over to make room.

Kenna did as she told, bleary eyes focused on the Qunari, taking in their messy white braids falling around their angular face before said Qunari almost shoved a small minty sweet at her mouth.

She took it without complaint as Lileas reached out for the runes and making the mess go down the pipes with a rush of water.

“You know,” Asaaranda mused idly, sleep tussled, as they rolled another small ball of white minty goodness with their thick fingers almost curiously, “I can’t decide if Surgeon Bellerose was a genius or mad to come up with a sweet to help deal with feeling nauseas.”

Sweets that Lawrence Bellerose had presented with a flourish and a proud grin soon after Kenna first began waking up from that dream and being sick only to chew on mint leaves in the hopes of settling her stomach.

Sweets that were hard and round and with every roll in her mouth left a refreshing chill of mint flavour and with every swallow around the sweet helped settle her protesting and aching stomach.

“Genius,” Kenna decided as she rolled it within her mouth, she had spent too much time chewing on mint leaves in the past to decide any differently.

“You don’t have to do this, Asaaranda,” Lileas informed them as Kenna decided the Qunari’s chest looked like a nice place to rest her forehead against. “You could just leave the sweets here.”

“We both know I’m training to keep this one alive and mostly healthy,” Asaaranda snorted roughly though their hand was gentle as they cupped the back of Kenna’s head. “Besides, you can’t really lift her back to bed.”

Kenna grumbled without words, she wasn’t asleep—Asaaranda had smacked her the first time they had suspected that Kenna was drifting off with the sweet still in her mouth, scowling as they had informed her with a hard glint in their quicksilver eyes that they would continue to smack her if she drifted again because they wouldn’t save her if she started choking on the sweet in her sleep—but she was drained, weak and shaky after losing everything in her stomach.

“Bed,” Asaaranda decided after a moment, shifting Kenna round until they could easily lift Kenna like a bride, “the stone is too damn cold for this time of night.”

“Thank you,” Kenna mumbled into Asaaranda’s broadening shoulder, sweet tucked in her right cheek.  

* * *

~ Highever’s Harbour, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~

It seemed today was the day that the Ravencrest would once again pull into Highever’s Harbour with a royal presence on board.

Kenna was quietly hopeful that it meant she wouldn’t have to dream about the Prince now that she was meeting him.

The Couslands—with Oriana firmly added—had made their way down to the harbour the moment a look-out how spotted the ship approaching and was waiting as patiently as possible for the ship dock and such.

Mother was giving a slightly disapproving look towards Kenna at the fact that Kenna didn’t bother to change in one of her few dresses and Kenna ignored her from her place between Oriana and Cait.

She was wearing her best pair of trousers—no wear from the training-ground—and one of her midnight-blue tunics that had golden detail of songbirds with laurel leaves decorating it and her pair of boots had been polished and gleamed a dark brown under the sun—so really, in Kenna’s opinion, there was no real reason for Mother to complain.

Especially not when Caitlyn was dressed perfectly in one of her beautifully detailed dresses with more discreet armouring around her torso and her golden hair pulled back into intricate braids that were pinned into the shapes of flowers and a trace of black kohl around her bright blue eyes that just made them stand out while one of her handmade balms gave her lips just a hint of colour.

It was obvious in Kenna’s opinion, that no one would care about what Kenna was wearing while Caitlyn was beside her.

And especially not with Oriana on her other side with a pale gold dress with a discreet laurel pattern in darker shade of gold, her auburn hair braided into a bun with stray curls framing her face and a brush of gold on her eyelids that helped pick up the hint of gold she had in her dark eyes and made them gleam as she kept one pale olive-tone hand curled lovingly around Fergus’ arm.

Really, Kenna was going to be overlooked and she was happy about that, because she really didn’t want to know if she would see the Prince’s pinned corpse if she laid eyes on him and if she did, she didn’t want him to see her pale and almost gag when the phantom smells returned to her.

She was certain that wouldn’t go over well and didn’t want to tempt fate.

She leaned back on her heels and meet the dark eyes of Thomas Howe—the Howes had arrived when it came clear that Bran was coming with a Royal presence on board—and he made a show of rolling his eyes towards his father as Arl Howe spoke quickly and quietly to both of his children—though neither Delilah and Thomas were paying attention.

Nathaniel Howe—the eldest—had been in the Free Marches for as long as Kenna could remember, and it didn’t look like he was coming home anytime soon.

(Cait was of the opinion that Arl Howe send-off Nathaniel because of a brawl he had with his cousin, Audric Bryland, at Kenna’s Blessing—Fergus had always looked slightly guilty whenever Cait had spoken about her suspicions because he was meant to be the one watching over them.)

Kenna flashed him an amused grin which made him grin back—three-years her senior, Thomas was her best friend when it came to her fellow nobles though to be fair there wasn’t much choice between Thomas Howe and the annoying Habren Bryland (well there was Rory Gilmore, but he was more Cait’s age and training to be a Knight in service of the Couslands so he didn’t count).

“They are going to be letting down the gangplank soon,” Cait told her in an undertone as she nudged at Kenna’s shoulder. “Pay attention.”

The gangplank was lowered soon enough and Prince Cailan was the first to appear with grey eyes bright and alive and a massive grin on his face as he looked around.

Kenna let out a breathe of relief when there was no phantom of his pinned body. Good, good, it didn’t look like Kenna was going to cause a scene from seeing the Royals dead.

Almost as soon as she thought that, King Maric appeared, a restraining hand placed on his son’s shoulder with an affection and weary grin, and the breath caught in her chest as she stared.

Golden hair had turned a brittle white as it framed a gaunt face, beard unkept and the blue of his eyes seemed faded. He looked small, the way the skin hung from his once board and healthy frame made him seem so small.

There was blood around his thin wrists, the clothing he wore was old and hanging, and there was an air of hopelessness around him.

King Maric would not have a quick death, it wouldn’t be painless, and Kenna couldn’t turn her gaze away from the phantom that hovered just behind his shoulder—the silent herald of his death, of his fate, invisible to all, but Kenna.

Kenna was really starting to dislike the Theirin family.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_“Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature.”_ –Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, Mother of Vengeance, Asha’bellanar.

* * *

~ Highever’s Harbour, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~

Kenna clenched her jaw as the Royal Party—consisting of King Maric, Prince Cailan, Lady Anora Mac Tir and Bann Teagan Guerrin—descended down the gangplank with Bran and Art and torn her gaze away from the pale phantom.

She wanted Lileas, she realised as she flexed her left hand and glanced over her shoulder where Lileas stood quietly back with Rosina, Alouette and Nan at a ‘respectable’ distance from their noble employers.

She wanted the other girl beside her, to hold her wrist as she centred herself and turned away from the King’s future-phantom, wanted to wrap her fingers around a pale wrist and have the slender form press against her side in comfort.

She wanted Asaaranda looking at her with concerned quicksilver eyes and a frown to their lips, a rough hand cupping her jaw and a mint-sweet shoved into her mouth as a distraction.

She wanted Giles with his smug smirk as he whispered bits of gossip into her ear or ranted about the ‘Bastard Knight’ in undertone, one arm tossed casually around her shoulders with his crippled hand tucked out of sight and his pale blue eyes watchful of everyone around them.

But because of this Royal visit—a great honour, Nan had informed her and Cait had agreed, an honour for Bran’s actions—she couldn’t have them, couldn’t have her own beside her.

Lileas was an elven-servant and needed to keep her distance, something that meant that for the first time Lileas—and thus the others—wouldn’t be allowed to sit at the head-table as they dined.

Asaaranda had decided to make themselves scarce and descended into Lowever, they were going to spent most of their time studies as they didn’t think the Royal Family would be impressed with a Qunari in the employment of one of the oldest and most powerful families in Ferelden—second only to Theirin family in age and power, and next to the still new Mac Tir family in power—and while Kenna had personally thought that was stupid, others had agreed.

(Asaaranda was going to come back stinking of blood and the pure alcohol they used to clean their tools, it would bury their scent of the sharp mint and something that reminded Kenna of thunderstorms, and Kenna already hated it.)

Giles was no doubt directing the Little Birds and somewhere he could see the line of servants that the Royal Party had brought—no doubt to see which he thought he could recruit or at least become friendly with to find out the happenings of Denerim.

Kenna already hated all this, it wasn’t helped by her dreams— _grey eyes staring from under loose bloody golden hair, Bran’s wrecked voice, undead eyes staring at them_ —and now the King’s phantom—blood on pale wasted wrists, a gaunt face, brittle white hair, pale bloodshot blue eyes.

That was without going into the awkwardness that Kenna could already feel at the sight of Lady Anora Mac Tir—while Kenna had never met her, it was obvious who she was when she tucked her arm around the Prince’s with familiar ease—heading down the gangplank beside her betrothed.

Kenna’s first dream about Prince Cailan— _tanned hands cupping a paler cheek, lips brushing, a breathless laugh, a cut off moan of pleasure, warm grey eyes, tanned lids fluttering closed over Cousland blue eyes_ —took place in Bran’s bedroom with her brother not looking older than he was currently, which meant they would no doubt be developing their relationship that way during this Royal visit—if they already hadn’t—and with the Prince’s betrothed around—Cait was going to have a fit as she tried to run interference.

Kenna wanted to groan, she wanted to tug at her hair in the hopes it would relieve some of the ache, she wanted Lileas, she wanted Asaaranda, she wanted Giles, she didn’t want to spent the next month or so surrounded by the Royal Party, she wanted…she….

Kenna moved, ignoring the Royal Party as they stepped onto the harbour and the look both Cait and Mother were no doubt shooting her, and reached up in front of Fergus.

Fergus didn’t hesitate, he pulled his arm from Oriana and was quick to sweep Kenna up and perch her on his hip in a way he had done since Kenna was four and woke up screaming her throat raw and choking on her sobs.

“What’s wrong?” Fergus asked as he cupped her face with one rough hand, his other arm keeping her in place by tucking it under her bum.

Kenna clenched her jaw and shook her head as she looped her arms around his neck—Fergus was safety, he was comfort, he was Fergus, and the only one she could have now.

“Fergus,” Mother hissed, “put her down.”

“Kenna’s not feeling well,” Fergus immediately said, defended, as Kenna rested her aching head against his throat, feeling the vibration of his voice and the motions of his throat. “It’s better if I hold her, unless you want the King and Prince to see her wavering on her feet?”

Kenna could almost feel the look Mother was sending them, but she said nothing as Oriana reached out and softly rubbed Kenna’s back in soothing little circles.

Kenna liked Oriana, she hoped that just because she didn’t see her future that it didn’t mean something bad would happen.

(A scream caught in her throat, trapped behind clenched teeth, as Oriana fell with dark eyes already dim in death—Maker, why couldn’t she see that coming? Why couldn’t she change that? _Oh Maker, Fergus, I’m sorry_ —and she lunged with her blades ready and tears in her eyes at the bastard that murdered her sister, murdered Fergus’ Oriana with her Shadow guarding her back as she cut a bloody-path through the enemy.)

“Perhaps you should try to have a nap when we get back?” Oriana asked softly. “You don’t look like you have been sleeping well recently.”

Fergus’ hand tightened briefly on her, she could almost feel him looking at her with renewed concern.

“Thomas…” Kenna began, and Fergus pressed a quick kiss to her head to silence her.

“Thomas can wait,” he told her firmly, “you need your rest.”

“Your Majesty,” Father greeted formally, cutting off anything else and the family bowed—Fergus carefully with Kenna perched on his hip and Kenna bowed her head.

“Teyrn Cousland,” King Maric greeted with an almost waned smile as he held out one strong hand that Father took. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Kenna watched him as best as she could with her head almost nestled in Fergus’ neck.

There was something familiar to his face, she thought with a slight frown, though she wasn’t sure what it was with the carefully groomed beard.

“It has been some time,” Father agreed with a smile.

“You remember my son, Cailan, and his betrothed Anora Mac Tir?” King Maric introduced as he stepped back and Cailan stepped forward with a cheerful grin and his hand outstretched with Lady Anora on his other arm.

“Of course,” Father smiled as he shook Cailan’s hand and bowed his head slightly towards Lady Anora, “though it has been some years and His Highness has grown rather a lot and Lady Anora has gotten more lovelier.”

Kenna frowned as she stared at Cailan’s face, eyes focusing on the curve of his jaw, the line of his nose and the arch of his cheekbones as Lady Anora smiled at Father with the slightest duck of her head that suggested she was blushing.

She thought of a pale hand, Cait’s hand, cupping the jaw of the man she loves, the familiar curve, she thought of Cait’s thumb rubbing against the arch of the cheekbones, of the line of nose that buried itself into Cait’s golden hair.

 _Oh_ , she realised as she stared and took in the familiar features, features that echoed his father, echoed who had to be his brother, a brother she had dreamt about long before him.

“He’ll crown her with a circlet of gold and silver roses,” she muttered almost to herself as she stared, “that makes sense now.”

Fergus twitched slightly but didn’t ask as she switched her gaze to Lady Anora—a future Queen that would one day lose her husband and throne, her husband to death and the throne to Kenna’s sister.

Well, this made things even more awkward.

Kenna firmly decided she wasn’t going to deal with this now and buried her face in Fergus’ neck without further ado and just listened as introductions were given.

* * *

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~

 Bran barely had the time to notice that Cait was perched on Fergus’ bed with her hair down in golden waves before Fergus slammed him against the bedroom door and closing it with the force of Bran’s body.

“What the fuck?” Bran gasped as his head bounced against the solid wood and his vision briefly blurred.

“That’s what I should be asking,” Fergus growled, his fists clenched tight around Bran’s tunic and he shook his brother, “what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck are you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind or are you just stupid?”

“Fergus,” Cait sighed from the bed, rubbing her temples, “calm down, please.”

“How can I calm down when our brother is being so fucking stupid?” Fergus snapped, glaring, and Bran pushed at him off and back.

“Why are you calling me stupid? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bran demanded as he took a step forward with his own glare making Fergus snarl at him.

“You!” his older brother snarled, “You are being stupid! Fucking the Prince and being so Maker-damned obvious about it in front of his fucking betrothed!”

Bran felt like he had been doused in icy water, he stumbled back against the door his brother had slammed him against and stared.

“H-how did you know..?” Bran stuttered and trailed off.

“Fergus!” Cait’s voice raised in a cold snap and stopped their brother in the motion of opening his mouth. “That is enough.”

Fergus closed his mouth and turned away from Bran, rubbing the scruff as he scowled at nothing.

Caitlyn pursed her lips as she turned toward Bran.

“You are lucky that most would just write off your interactions with the Prince as an especially close friendship springing up,” Cait informed him, her tone cool and her eyes—a rich, bright and deep blue that belonged solely to the Couslands, the mirror of his own eyes—were as sharp as a blade as she stared at Bran, “as neither are of you are at all subtle about sharing affection and looks.”

“How did you know?” Bran’s voice was weak, his heart was beating too fast in his chest, he felt dizzy and cold as he stared at his sister.

“You have questions about Kenna,” Cait said and Bran stared because what has Kenna have to do with this? “She’s how we know that you are…”

“A sword-swallower,” Fergus piped up with when Cait trailed off.

“Yes, that,” Cait agreed with a mild grimace, “though your _relationship_ has to do with your own actions.”

“Explain,” Bran demanded, pleaded, and they do.

* * *

Head spinning, Bran didn’t even know where his feet was talking them until the door was opening in front of him.

“Bran?” Cailan asked, confused as he stared and reached out with a warm affection hand.

And Bran realised he didn’t want to think, not now, not when it was still so fresh in his mind, not when Cait’s voice—low and grieved—still echoed those damning words;

_“She saw Father dying, Bran, she dreamt it so often, and I believe her,”_

Bran stepped forward, his hands cupping Cailan’s jaw and the back of his head, his fingers tangling in golden locks, and he pressed forward as he pulled Cailan’s head down and pressed a desperate and hungry kiss on Cailan’s lips.

_“If you were here, if you had seen her, you would believe too,”_

Cailan made a muffled sound of surprise, but he didn’t resist, didn’t push Bran away. No, Cailan pulled him close with one arm wrapped around Bran’s waist and his free hand tangled in Bran’s dark locks, pulled him tight against him so they could feel all the hard lines of their bodies and the growing want pressed against each other’s hip.

Bran moaned as he rolled his hips and Cailan groaned in response as he dragged Bran backwards, briefly releasing his grip on Bran’s waist to slam the door shut behind them.

 _“She knows things, Bran,”_ Fergus’ voice joined Cait’s, an echo of words he was trying to ignore, _“knows things about people that she shouldn’t know, like she knew about you.”_

For the second time that night, Bran found his back against the door, but this time for a better reason as Cailan pulled away from his lips when air became a pressing demand before placing open-mouthed kisses along Bran’s throat between pants.

“Make it so I can’t think about anything apart from you,” Bran panted as he rutted forward, he could feel Cailan grin against his throat as he rolled his hips back, so their arousal rubbed against each other.

_“We believe her, will you believe us?”_

“Done,” Cailan informed him all cocksure, teeth tugging at the lobe of his ear briefly before he was pulling Bran back towards the bed. “I’ll even make you forget your own name, how does that sound, love?”

Bran groaned, aching, desperate, wanting, and Cailan laughed—that breathless laugh that was solely Bran’s—as he turned them and push Bran back on the bed with a soft thump.

For a moment Bran lay there with heat curling in his belly as he stared up at Cailan.

Golden hair hung loose and messy to his shoulders, velvet-grey eyes were staring at him with a heated look, a smirk curled at reddened lips as Cailan pulled his tunic off in one quick movement and Bran swallowed at the expanse of pale skin and firm muscles displayed before him.

Bran sat up, shrugging of his own tunic without any grace and throwing it to the side, he pulled at the ties of his trousers as Cailan almost prowled forward.

“Impatient?” Cailan asked with that smirk as he knelt on the bed, moving so he was almost hovering over Bran.

“Yes,” Bran hissed as he reached up and fisted those gold locks in one hand, pulling Cailan down and into another deep kiss.

Yes, he was impatient. Impatient to forget, to not think about anything but how prettily Cailan flushed in arousal, impatient to touch, to taste, to feel.

Impatient to forget about the feelings churning in his stomach, the ache in his heart as he believed like his siblings did.

Impatient to drown himself in Cailan, to push away those thoughts, those feelings, that belief, until he was filled with pleasure, lust and such.

Filled with Cailan, having him buried deep in him, the taste of him on his tongue, the feel of him in him, around him.

And as Cailan pressed him down, warm skin under his hands, greedy lips devouring his, a hard cock against his hip, Bran found it easy to forget everything apart from Cailan.

* * *

Kenna should be asleep, the tea still warm in her stomach and the heaviness of her eyelids told her that. But she didn’t want to sleep, not yet.

It wasn’t because she was afraid of what she would see, fear would do nothing to stop the dreams and would only make things worse for her when she did wake up.

No, she didn’t want to sleep because she wanted to take some time to savour this.

The feel of Lileas curled around her back, her legs tangled with hers and her face buried in the back of Kenna’s neck.

The hardness of Asaaranda’s shoulder as her pillow, the  easy and calm heart-beat under the palm of her hand.

The sound of Giles’ snuffled breathes from Lileas’ bed below.

It was comforting, to have all of hers in one place and safe— _not all, not really, her Shadow was still not here, still yet to find her_.

It would give her strength in the days, weeks, to come as the Royal Visit dragged itself out.

Kenna just dozed, not allowing herself to fully fall asleep as she hoarded the feeling of hers with her as she let her mind wander and her ‘gift’ unfolded, showing her scenes and things without overwhelming her, without dragging her down into the abyss.

 _“You are the Herald of Change,”_ a wizen— _familiar_ —voice spoke to her, echoing in her mind, a voice that brought to mind ancient and inhuman golden eyes and a mane of white hair arranged to look like dragon horns, a face both old and ageless at the same time, _“what changes you will bring is the question I’m eager to see to answered.”_

“Whatever change is best for mine,” Kenna answered softly, sleep thick in her voice as Lileas tightened her grip around Kenna’s waist for a moment.

There was a cackle of laughter that echoed, like the woman heard her response and was delighted by it.


	20. Chapter Twenty

_“We have been given the gift of freedom by our forbearers. Let us not squander it.”_ –Anora Theirin nee Mac Tir, daughter of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, widow of the late King Cailan Mac Tir, former Queen of Ferelden.

* * *

 

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 13th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~

Lady Caitlyn, Anora had quickly realised, was a good sister, a protective sister.

She was also perceptive as it was obvious that she had picked up on the nature of the relationship between Cailan and her brother—which wasn’t hard as Cailan didn’t have a subtle bone in his body especially when it came to someone he liked—and was doing her level best to distract Anora from it.

It was rather sweet, if completely unnecessary, Anora mused as Alouette Mac Sullivan’s slightly husky voice echoed through the room as she played her lute in the corner and Anora added another stitch to the Theirin Royal crest on the breast of one of Cailan’s tunics—Cailan had been wearing tunics embroidered by Anora’s own hands since she was ten.

Cailan and herself had grown up together, they were childhood friends, were best friends and that meant that Cailan rarely kept any secrets from her.

Sometimes Anora didn’t think Cailan knew _how_ to keep something from her since it was always Anora he shared his secrets with.

(Anora would one day read the letters that Cailan had been exchanging with the Empress Celene, she would take in the familiar tone, and she would almost laugh bitterly as she realised that Cailan did know how to keep secrets from her after all.)

This morning, Lady Caitlyn was more annoyed as Cailan had convinced Brannon to show him the small boat that he first learnt to sail with—a boat that could only take the two of them which Cailan no doubt knew and planned to take advantage of—and that practised pretty smile of hers had been rather tense when she turned to Anora that morning at breakfast after Cailan’s announcement and asked her if she would like to join her and Lady Delilah Howe and do some embroidery.

They weren’t alone in the room, no, they had Alouette Mac Sullivan as their personal mistral and Rosina Surana was here with Anora’s new Lady-in-Waiting Erlina—Father was still glowering at the poor elf every time she opened her mouth and her Orlesian accent would remind him of just where she had come from.

(Father had almost thrown a fit when Maric had officially agreed to peace with the newly crowned Empress.)

The young Lady Kenna had escaped from the offer of embroidery by grabbing Thomas Howe and declaring that he owed her a sparring match when her sister had turned towards her with a considering look that at breakfast.

The speed the young noble girl had dragged the boy out with Lileas Surana quick on their heels was rather amusing and caused Fergus Cousland to smile his first real smile in the presence of Cailan.

Until the blonde idiot ruined it by tugging Brannon up from the table and wrapping his arm around the younger man’s shoulders as he excitingly talked about the boat—Oriana had almost absently dug her nails into her betrothed’s hand as she kept talking with Teyrna Eleanor about wedding plans making Fergus cut off his glower with a pained hiss.

Anora was fairly certain that the only reason that Fergus Cousland hadn’t punched Cailan despite his clear desire to do so and to defend his younger brother from Cailan’s interest was because Cailan was his Prince.

Anora glanced up from beneath her lashes and across to where Lady Delilah was admiring the embroidered quilt squares that Rosina had sown and then carefully embroidered lilies, birds and such on each square—she was going to turn it into a full quilt for her younger sister for Satinalia—and then glancing towards where Erlina was frowning as she made lace—Anora had already promised to add her best pieces of lace to her wedding-dress.

“You can relax, you know,” Anora told Lady Caitlyn in an undertone making the younger woman glance up with shockingly rich blue eyes—Cousland blue, she had heard them be called as they were near the same shade of blue that of the background of the Cousland’s heraldry.

“I am relaxed, Lady Anora,” she smiled as she protested, a practised and pretty looking smile—as practised and as pretty as Anora’s own smile when she was dealing with people outside of her father, Cailan and Erlina.

“No, you are not,” Anora disagreed with some amusement, “I am well aware of the nature of the relationship between Cailan and Brannon.”

Caitlyn stiffened slightly and almost stabbed her thumb with her needle—she was stitching a complex scene of a female warrior stabbing a dragon that Anora would bet was for her sister considering the flame coloured hair of the warrior—and her eyes widened as she turned towards her almost fully.

Anora smiled at her, practised and pretty with a glint of amusement in her more glacier blue eyes.

“You are?” Caitlyn asked, almost licking her rosy pink lips, but refraining from smudging the colour she had painted her lips with.

“Cailan doesn’t keep secrets from me,” Anora told her simply, confident in her assessment.

“And you are fine with that?” Caitlyn pressed, blue eyes narrowing on her, protective of her older brother still clear.

“I’d rather Cailan have dalliances with other men then worry about him siring a bastard before we wed,” Anora answered candidly, “and we will wed, I will be his wife and the only woman that will ever share his bed, why should I worry about the men he takes to it in the mean time?”

Caitlyn looked at her for a moment, her lips pursed, before finally she nodded as she turned her attention back to her embroidery.

“If you like, I can keep you updated of your brother when he visits Denerim?” Anora offered as she turned back to the tunic in her hand, the unspoken ‘for as long as his and Cailan’s relationship lasts’ were heard, and Caitlyn nodded after a moment.

“Yes, please,” Caitlyn agreed before glancing up at her, “though I hope we can write about other things? As friends of course.”

“Friends,” Anora toyed that word in her mouth as she glanced up, she had never had a friend outside of Cailan or Erlina, but she could see herself as a friend of Caitlyn Cousland, “yes, I would like that.”

* * *

~ Training Ground, Cousland Castle, Highever, 13th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~

Kenna aimed a swipe at Thomas’ head with her wooden training sword—thinner and longer than what she normally wield when she trained with her twin short swords—and grinned as he stepped back and blocked it with his own training sword.

“Have you heard from your brother recently?” she asked as she blocked his stab towards her stomach, her left arm folded behind her back to stop her from lashing out with her empty hand.

“He’s taken up doing archery in the Tournaments that Ser Rodophe takes him too,” Thomas informed her, a slight frown as he blocked Kenna’s under-strike to his legs and hopped back.

“I wonder if he’d beat Cait then,” Kenna mused as she pressed forward with a thrust towards Thomas’ stomach that he just blocked.

“Father isn’t impressed,” Thomas grunted as he pushed forward with his greater strength, Kenna twisting away and backing up with her sword ready as she watched him with gleaming dual sea coloured eyes.

“Why?” Kenna frowned slightly as they began to circle each other, careful not to cross her feet as she moved.

“Great-Grandfather,” Thomas sighed deeply, dark eyes narrowed on his friend as he circled.

“Because he was an archer and went off to become a Warden?” Kenna frowned as she remembered what she had learnt about the Howes. “Really? He didn’t even know the man.”

Thomas snorted, humourless.

“Father can be rather petty,” he informed her, eyes sharp as he waited for her to make a move.

“Like how he’s keeping Nathaniel in the Free Marches because of the brawl at my Blessing?” Kenna asked dryly making Thomas snort in agreement. “It’s been my whole life really, and he’s still not allowing him back?”

“Mother’s furious,” Thomas confided, hand clenching around the hilt of sword. “She keeps saying nobody will trust him as their Arl if he’s spent so much of his time in the Marches.”

“What’s your father said to that?” Kenna asked, eyeing him as she mentally went through where to strike.

“That apparently I’m going to be the Arl,” Thomas grimaced as he admitted it and Kenna actually lowered her sword as she gaped at him in shock.

“But you’d be a terrible Arl,” she protested, and Thomas nodded, not at all offended because she was right, he would make a terrible Arl.

“I think that’s why he wants me to marry Caitlyn,” he sighed as he allowed his own sword to lower.

“But you won’t marry Cait,” she said without any doubt, in a matter-a-fact tone, the same tone she had always used when discussing Caitlyn’s future husband when someone tried to say she would marry someone, “she’s going to marry someone that loves her and treats her like a Queen.”

“I told Father that the only Cousland I would marry is you,” he informed her with a hint of a grin, watching as shock ripple across her golden-tanned face before she snorted in amusement.

“I bet he was impressed by that,” Kenna almost laughed as she tried to imagine Arl Howe’s face.

“Oh, he was almost furious,” Thomas grinned at her, “I told him if he tried to force the issue again, I’d elope with you the first chance we’re able and run-away to become adventurers.”

“I think that’s the first and best marriage proposal I’ve ever had,” Kenna grinned back at him, wide and happy with no attempt to hide it or soften it into something more lady-like.

“It’ll probably always be the best,” Thomas informed her almost smugly, “everyone else will expect you to be a proper noble wife while I know you’d prefer fighting dragons, hunting down slavers and exploring old ruins.”

“So what?” Kenna asked as she moved so she could lean on her sword, “should I swoon and take you up on your offer? Since you’re _obviously_ the best I will ever have?”

“And have Fergus after me for proposing without asking him?” Thomas made a show of shuddering, “no thank you.”

Kenna laughed with her head thrown back, her neck a golden arch as wild laughter burst from her lips, brilliant and bright, and free, and Thomas grinned back almost hopelessly.

Yes, if there was anyone in the world he would marry, it would be Kenna.

* * *

It was very easy to stop thinking, to fall completely into Cailan so that Bran didn’t have to think about anything else.

It was easy to fall into their kisses—sweet light kisses that almost always swiftly turned hard and lustful.

It was easy to fall into Cailan’s touches—possessive, claiming, lustful, tender, searching, seeking.

It was easy to fall into the taste—of his lips, of his skin, of his sweat, of his cum.

It was easy to think of nothing but him, in him, over him, kissing him, loving him, branding him with bruises and marking him with kisses.

It was him running away, Bran could admit to himself in the quiet moments, when they were spent and resting against each other, breathing calming and deepening.

Running away from Fergus, from Caitlyn, from _Kenna_.  

Running away from what he was told, what Kenna had apparently foreseen, but he didn’t know if he could stop running, he didn’t know if he could stop drowning himself in Cailan.

Bran had started running the first night he had gone to Cailan and didn’t know how to stop.

So, of course, Kenna would stop him.

* * *

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~

Bran paused in the midst of shutting his door behind him and eyed the person sat crossed legged on his bed and twisting a half-finished carved bird in their golden hands.

“Fergus and Cait told you,” Kenna said without looking up, without any doubt.

Bran finished closing the door but didn’t know if he should approach his bed or not, so he ended up lingering by the door.

“Yes,” Bran answered slowly as he watched his youngest sister.

She looked up then, looking older than her seven years, with hard dual-coloured eyes and her flame coloured hair braided and pinned around her head.

“Do you believe me?” she asked after a moment.

Bran paused, staring at her, staring into her eyes that were hard and haunted and much too old for her baby face.

Did he believe her, that was the question, wasn’t it? Could he believe her?

He remembered the way Cait’s voice trembled as she spoke.

_“She’d scream and cry, choking on them whenever Mother or Father reached out for her. Sometimes I thought she’d end up coughing up blood from the force of her screams or stop breathing because of the tears choking her.”_

He wondered how it felt, to see his baby sister screaming her throat raw or choking on her own tears.

He remembered Fergus’ voice, firm and serious when he spoke.

_“You didn’t see her, Bran, didn’t see her when she spoke of what she seen. I did, Cait did, and we believe her, Maker damn it all, we believe her.”_

“I—” he stopped, he didn’t know what to say.

“You and Cailan are having sex,” Kenna informed him bluntly making him blush hotly and gape because the word ‘sex’ shouldn’t fall from his sister’s lips, “you’ll fall in love with him, and he’ll love you too, but in the end he’ll break your heart and I will never forgive him for that.”

Her voice was certain, firm, there was no doubt nor hesitation.

She kept her gaze locked with his, letting him see her certainty.

“One day, you will sacrifice the sea for us,” she told him, her voice soft, but tone still certain, an odd weight as she spoke of the future. “One day, you will reach out for a poisoned chalice and drink from it willingly. One day, you will love again, he’ll have sky-blue eyes and he’ll stain his hands bloody uselessly because he’s kind, because he has compassion.”

“Kenna,” his tongue felt thick in his mouth as he stared, he couldn’t say anything.

“You believe, but you are afraid,” Kenna seemed to muse, her eyes seeming to see right through him and down to his core. “You never do want to ask, you can’t bring yourself too, can’t bring yourself to know what’s coming, and that will only make it hurt more in the end.”

She let out a sigh then, deep and long, and disappointed, but not surprised.

“At least you believe me,” she decided as she put the carving to the side and slid from his bed.

She walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Thank you for believing me,” she almost whispered into his middle, “but stop avoiding us by having sex with Cailan or Fergus may really forget he can’t punch a prince.”

Bran choked, almost laughed as he wrapped his arms around her.

“I’ll try,” he promised her as she pulled back and looked up at him.

“Good,” she said with a primness that reminded him of Cait, before she was leaving his room with almost cat-like slinkiness.

Bran leaned back against the once-again closed door and just breathed for a moment as he came to terms with things.

* * *

**Author’s Note; Hello! Here is a short gift you for! Now, I’m unsure if I should keep writing in this time or jump skip a few years for Kenna’s Shadow to arrive.**

**Also are you’re thoughts about Shadow? Any things you’d like to see?**

**Please let me know, and happy holidays!**  


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

_“We are Couslands, and we done what must be done.”_ – Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever.

* * *

Eleanor was meant to be the mother of four—brave Fergus, adventurous Bran, intelligent Caitlyn and bold Kenna—but she hadn’t felt much like a mother of four for years, hadn’t felt like Kenna’s mother for years.

Kenna had been her precious youngest, the one child she could keep when Fergus got married, when Bran went off to sea, when Caitlyn chose a husband and ruled through him.

She was meant to be able to keep Kenna, keep her close and loved, to be free, but still close to her.

( _She was so tiny, so much smaller and seemingly more fragile than any of her siblings before.)_

But that was a dream she had when Kenna had been pinked-faced and freshly swaddled when she was placed in her arms, a dream that was dashed.

The first break came the night after Kenna turned four, when she first woke up screaming.

Eleanor knew screams, she knew screams of rage, of pain, of the dying, of the grieving.

Screams were the lullaby of her childhood, the background of her early adulthood, and while Nan may have thought Kenna screamed like she was being murdered, like she was dying, Eleanor knew better.

Her daughter, four-years-old, screamed like someone was dying in front of her, screaming the scream of the grief-stricken.

Whatever dream she had, whatever night-terror troubled her sleep, it had started the cracks in their relationship.

( _It was a habit—a response—build in her childhood that made Eleanor wake almost immediately when the scream broke the silence of the night and for her to jump out of bed, head clear and sharp, hands reaching for weapons she no longer slept with._

 _But it was Bryce who figured out whose scream it was, it was Bryce that was first to the door and down the hall towards the girls’ shared room, to where Kenna was screaming._ )

It started cracking when Kenna screamed harder when Bryce reached out for her, when Kenna cried harder and choked when Eleanor had attempted to sooth her.

( _Bryce reached out for her, frantic with worry, and Kenna flinched like she had been hit, like she had been stabbed, her scream raising ever higher, her face red and her eyes wide, and Eleanor pulled her husband back, fearful that Kenna would tear her throat with her scream._

_Eleanor moved forward, hands held out and face filled with worry, and Kenna choked on a sob, scrambling back as her breathing hitched and stopped through her tears.)_

It cracked again when Caitlyn stepped forward and Kenna had turned to her—teary eyed, red-faced, scared—and called out in a trembling teary voice that pleaded.

( _“Cait,” Kenna called, voice thick with tears, trembling and pleading, and Cait softened in love and hardened in determination._ )

And Caitlyn didn’t hesitate, she moved forward and was able to comfort Kenna in the way that Eleanor couldn’t.

( _Cait climbed on the bed, met Kenna’s reaching hands, and pulled her close, let Kenna hide her face in Cait’s neck, and held her close, soothing her with words._ )

And Eleanor had felt jealous of her own daughter, had been hurt that her other daughter refused her, wouldn’t accept her comfort.

It cracked further when Fergus was able to comfort her, comfort her in a way that neither Eleanor nor Bryce could.

( _Eleanor watched from the partly opened doorway, watched as Fergus hummed slightly and rocked with Kenna perched on his hip, her arms looped around his shoulders and her face buried in his neck._

 _One hand—when did his hands get so big? When did they become man’s hands?—rubbing Kenna’s back, soothing each hitch and tremble as Caitlyn folded down the covers for when Kenna was ready to return to bed._ )

Eleanor had pulled away, and Kenna had clung tighter to Fergus and Cait, turning towards them first before anyone else.

( _Kenna yawned, tired from her disturbed sleep and from her new training with Ser Kenneth, and she stumbled on heavy legs and half-lidded eyes._

_Eleanor would never admit how much it hurt the first time when Kenna walked passed her and towards Fergus—she would never admit to how much it continued to hurt as she was slowly replaced by Fergus and Caitlyn in her youngest’s life._

_She reached up with a pleading look, and Fergus smiled as he swept her up, perching her on his hip as easy as breathing, and just continuing with what he was doing as Kenna dozed against his shoulder._ )

Even Nan had picked up on it, turning towards Fergus and Cait more than Bryce or Eleanor when it came to Kenna.

( _“Your sister is trouble,” Nan informed Caitlyn with pursed lips, almost completely ignoring that Eleanor was there apart from the greeting nod towards her._

_“What did she do this time?” Cait sighed, rubbing her temples._

_That was all the opening Nan needed to rant about the latest thing that Kenna had gotten into._ )

Eleanor had thought—hoped—that Bran returning would change things, would return things to how it was before perhaps.

It had been naïve, it had been unrealistic, and it had been unfulfilled.

( _Bran watched, wary and curious, Kenna continued on, free and determined, Fergus watched back, smiling and protective, Caitlyn plotted, wary and protective, and Eleanor stood back and watched it unfold, watched the tension ebb and flow._ )

Bran went to Ostwick, had extended his stay as he dealt with what had changed in his absence, and then fought of raiders and caught the attention of the King and Prince of Ferelden with his actions—fifteen like she had been fifteen when she first captured an Orlesian war-gallery.

Meanwhile, Fergus had found his bride and Oriana—lovely, Oriana that Eleanor was delighted to welcome to the family, truly she was—made a place for herself with Fergus, Cait and Kenna, had wedged herself in in a way that Eleanor couldn’t—never tried too—and they let her.

( _Oriana smiled, loving and warm, running an absent hand down Kenna’s back while the young girl curled into Fergus, dozing with one hand stretched across Fergus’ middle and interlocking with Lileas’ hand on Fergus’ other side, most of the young woman’s attention focused on the book in her other hand._

 _Eleanor envied the easy touch, the ease that Oriana had wedged herself in, and cursed herself as a coward for unable to do the same._ )

It was maddening, it was heart-breaking, it was her own fault, Eleanor knew.

Then Bran came back with a Prince hanging around his shoulders, a friend, and a new tension had developed between her children for a while before it was resolved without Eleanor knowing how or why.

And Eleanor still didn’t know how to reach out towards her youngest, towards Kenna, and she didn’t know if she would ever.

(Eleanor cupped the jaw of Kenna, her precious youngest, tears brimming in her stormy green eyes as Kenna stared back at her, grieving but unsurprised by her decision, tears brimming, but not falling.

“I love you, my darling girl,” Eleanor told her, a tremble to her voice as she greedily took in the face of her daughter, her free hand smoothing fire-coloured hair, wishing she had more time, that she had been braver.

“I know,” Kenna replied with quiet certainty, a hitch of rage and grief to her voice, “I love you too.”

“Live,” Eleanor told her, begged her, cursing herself for waiting so long to reach out. “Live long, happy and strong.”

“I will,” Kenna swallowed as she promised, “I’ll make them pay for this.”

“I know you will,” Eleanor bared her teeth in a grin that earned her the name of Seawolf, fierce and blood-thirsty that Kenna echoed easily. “Go now.”

Kenna pulled back, nodding, and reached out for Cait, and Cait—who never once hesitated when it came to Kenna, who had never pulled away like Eleanor had—took her hand and pulled her close, a comforting almost mothering arm wrapping around Kenna’s middle and while it still ached, Eleanor was comforted.

Kenna wouldn’t lost and alone as long as Caitlyn was around.)

* * *

Kenna dreamt, she dreamt of the future and sometimes of the present—she wondered if she would one-day dream of the past—no matter the Wards that Lileas learnt to put up to keep out demons and spirits, no matter how much tea she drank.

She dreamt of the future;

Of blood pouring down Cait’s face, the slice just missing her eye.

Of guts, pink and glistening through the gaps of blood-stained fingers.

Of her father’s voice trembling with pain and relief.

Of sky-blue eyes turning grim as a dark head shook.

Of golden eyes gleam with a sense of knowing, a curl of jaded lips.

Of her mother standing tall and proud, bow knocked and ready.

Of ruins echoing with the sounds of dogs, soldiers and the Chant of Light.

Of a conch shell horn echoing in the sudden silence.

Of hands reaching for a poisoned chalice.

Of an army of monsters appearing from the mist.

Of a golden King falling.

Of animalist golden eyes gleaming, long leather cladded legs moving with a stalking grace.

Of blood-red hair, crystal blue eyes and a lilting voice.

Of prays spoken solemnly, cold iron bars, a cage built from guilt.

Of snarls and growls from the shadows of a deep ancient forest.

Of mages laying broken, clawed and bloody.

Of a rose held out, a crooked smile and loving dark eyes.

Of a cocky smirk, gleaming eyes framed by dark feathers.

Of a stone face, lyrium blue eyes, a drone tone.

Of the dead walking, a child’s cry of fear as a mother wept.

Of two stone Kings circling and two shadow Queens plotting.

She dreamt of the present;

Of maddening silence that crept in, that made him want to scream.

Of the aching loneliness as they watched him with cold eyes.

Of the sense of fulfilment, of victory, in his chest as he fought with shield and sword.

Of olive-toned hands running across the spines of leather-bound books as he searched for more knowledge.

Of sky-blue eyes narrowed as he weaved spells, a feeling of pride unfolding deep in his chest as his mentor looked at him with pride.

Of the arch of his throat as he laughed fully, one arm wrapped around his friend, unaware of the envy beginning to seep in, the desperation that would leave him weak to whispers.

Of hair gleaming a deep red under the sun as she raced after her cousins, a stolen moment of happiness.

Of golden eyes gleaming like a cat’s under the dark hood pulled down to shadow her face as she glided across the roofs under the light of the moon.

Of dark hands curling around the hilts of twin daggers, the weak light threading through the holes of the old warehouse as she moved and twisted.

Of stalking through ancient forests with bow ready and dark eyes watchful, ears ready to pick up any sound of moment.

Of controlled breathing and careful stillness as he kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the steady pricks across his face as he became a man.  

Of disappearing from sight in the woods, a flash of white teeth as he leapt down and on the back of his unaware blonde friend, a moment of childish foolery that he only indulgence with him.

Of sapphire blue eyes watchful and keen as he listened quietly to warring nobles without drawing notice to himself, learning as he listened.

Of strong hands picking up his two-handed sword, his every moment controlled as he pushed his younger brother through his paces.

Of anger stirring in his heart as his older brother began to look at him with suspicion, ignoring the throb of deep pain as he felt their bond of brotherhood begin to break.

Of the smell of the sea that signalled freedom, the movement of his ship under his feet and his cousin at his side.

Of velvet grey eyes staring down at him heatedly, pale hands cupping his jaw and pulling him into a kiss.

Of bright blue Cousland eyes watching, wary, curious, as his fiery-haired sister went through her daily training with all the grim determination of someone decades older.

 Sometimes it frightened her, how she had gone from a silent and unseen witness to being able to feel what they felt or hear what they were thinking.

She knew them, knew them in a way that was invasive, in a way she shouldn’t.

She knew what it was like to kill a man filled with such seething rage and hatred that one could almost choke on it because of S.

She knew what it was like to use the rooftops under the light of the moon to get around Denerim because of the elf too.

She knew what it felt to be surrounded by others and still so utterly alone because of Al.

She knew what it was like to stalk through ancient woods with a bow ready and a line of rabbits hanging over her shoulder because of Ar.

She knew what it was like to fade into the forest and guard the clan from Shem because of the Dalish as well.

She knew what it was like to reach inward, to the well-spring of power in her, because of C.

She knew what it felt like to be hit by a Silence, the smothering feeling deep within and the sudden weakness that made knees tremble as one desperately reached for power that wasn’t there because of the mage too.

She knew what it was like in the Deep Roads, the invading darkness, the chitter of giant spiders, the sense of wrong from darkspawn because of D.

She knew what the Shaperate looked like, history actually written into the stone and gleaming with lyrium because of the dwarf too.

Because of Bran, she knew what it felt like to stand on the deck of a ship, the way it was never still as it rocked under foot.

She also saw herself in his eyes, felt his wariness and concern and cautious curiosity as he watched her.

Kenna worried about the bleed-through that could happen—that was already happening.

She worried she would become something less then herself if it continued on, if the bleed-through continued.

She worried about the future, about things that she could change and things she couldn’t no matter what she decided or tried.

Like her dreams of her father’s death, of betrayal and war coming to her home, she couldn’t change it, could never change it.

She thought about telling him, of tell them, but it didn’t work, it wouldn’t work, they wouldn’t believe.

Nothing changed, nothing would change, it was a fixed point, she supposed.

And Maker did it hurt, to know that she couldn’t change that, that she couldn’t stop death coming to her parents, to her home.

There was some relief though.

One person she knew wouldn’t die, that she would be able to protect, that she had known the moment she held him, all chubby cheeks and a head of dark hair.

She would be able to save her nephew, Oren would be safe, and she supposed she would have to be content with that.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

_“In the south you have Alienages, slums both human and elven. The desperate have no way out. Back home, a poor man can sell himself._

_As a slave he can have a position of respect, comfort and could even support a family. Some slaves are treated poorly, its true, but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?”_ – Altus Dorian Pavus of House Pavus of Tevinter, Agent of the Inquisition, Tevinter Ambassador to the Inquisition, Founding Member of the Lucerni.

* * *

~ Cousland Castle, Highever,  18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~

“You know, I was foolish enough to be pleased when Guard-Captain Kane sent me to the army,” Fergus informed his wife, pacing and gesturing angrily with one hand as the other cradled the chubby form of his infant son to his chest, “I had the misguided belief that it meant I wouldn’t have to deal with anymore paperwork. But what do I have to deal with Oriana?”

“Paperwork,” Oriana offered as she hid her smile behind a sip of citrus tea as Fergus gave an aggrieved gesture with his free hand.

“Paperwork!” he agreed with great feeling.  

Oriana reminded herself that she shouldn’t laugh, but truly it was hard to keep her giggles in as Fergus descended into another rant about the evilness of his most dreaded enemy—paperwork.

She made the mistake of laughing once, and the pout that Fergus fell into was adorable, if annoying at the same time.

It was remarkable how much a grown-man could look like his infant son with one pout, she mused as she watched as Oren tugged at one of the golden buttons of Fergus’ jacket with his chubby little hands while said man was distracted by his own rant.

“—the forms, Oriana! The forms!” he bemoaned pitifully. “I should have known something was up, I should have realised the trap. Waters smiled at me before I left! I should have taken that as the warning it was! She knew!”

“I’m sure she didn’t,” she soothed, though she was ignored

Oriana was fairly certain that Guardsman Waters had been well aware that Fergus wasn’t escaping paperwork with his leaving the City Guard, and Oriana was also very certain that the other woman had been greatly amused by Fergus’ ignorance.

“The handwriting some of them have, Oriana! The handwriting!” Fergus slumped into himself as Oren gave a gummy smile when the button in his hand gave a little under his strong tug. “How am I meant to understand it?”

That was Oriana cue to stand up and sweep her son away before he pulled the button off and placed it in his mouth—again.

“Don’t worry my love, you will soldier through this,” Oriana brushed a kiss against Fergus’ cheek as she adjusted Oren in her hands.

Oren gave her a pout at his fun being taken away when she stepped back, the pout that she knew came straight from his father.

“I need to thrash some idiots,” Fergus decided, “particularly idiots that can’t fill out a form clearly.”

“You make them regret it, my love,” she smiled at him as Fergus straightened.

“I will,” he declared as he picked up his great-sword from the stand and marched towards the door of their room. “I will see you at dinner.”

“Your father, Oren, is very silly,” Oriana informed her son after the door closed behind her husband as she pressed a light kiss to his nose.

Oren wrinkled his nose, dark eyes going slightly cross-eyed in the attempt to see where she had kissed him, and Oriana smiled.

* * *

~ Caitlyn’s Office, Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~

Caitlyn smiled her thanks towards Rosina as the elf finished placing the cups and saucers—it was a delicate white china set with a pattern of Cousland blue roses that Bran had commissioned for Cait’s fifteenth birthday—on the desk before turning her attention to Dain Cadash across from her.

Alouette was doing her best to figure out the cords for a song that Kenna had taken to singing absently these last few weeks—Cait wasn’t sure if her sister had made it up herself, because it almost sounded like she was remembering it though Alouette had never heard of it before.

Her fine dark brows were frowned somewhat as she tapped a pencil against her notebook, curling her torso around her lute as she hummed to herself before scowling and humming a different tune.

Davia had once again taken over the low table, had spread out books and notebooks and was sat on the floor as she sketched something in one notebook, and only pausing to jot down a quick note in another.  

Rosina stepped away from the desk and took her own seat somewhere in the middle of her two friends and picked up her knitting-needles—knitting was the one craft that Kenna actually didn’t mind doing and something that she bounded over with Rosina—and continued with her project—a jumper, Caitlyn believed, in midnight blue wool that meant it was either for Kenna or Lileas.

“How is the progress with the Alienage?” Caitlyn asked after letting Dain decide if the tea was to his liking.

“Exceeding my expectations,” the dwarf admitted after a small hum of pleasure at the taste of the tea. “We may be finished in another three years.”

“Impressive,” Caitlyn commented, meaning it wholeheartedly as shortening the ten-year timeline into six-years was impressive.

“The elves had proved themselves to be impressive,” Dain agreed, he had been slightly dubious of the number of the elves that signed up to help—more than he was expecting, but almost none with any experience—but they had proved themselves over the last three years.  

“Has there been any problems constructing the gate?” Cait asked after a sip of her tea.

“No,” Dain shook his head, the cup looking almost comedically delicate in his large hands, “Davia’s plans were easy enough to follow.”

“Good,” Cait smiled, pleased.

The Alienage would be a visible safe-haven in the future, near-impossible to be breached from the outside, and would stop enemies looking for Highever’s defenders as they would believe the Alienage shielded them.

Unaware of Lowever, unaware of just how many tunnels and passage-ways were hidden throughout Highever, unaware of just what type of hell they had walked in thinking they could take Highever as their own.

Caitlyn may not know who was going to attack them, who was going to betray them—it was a betrayal, Kenna was clear about that, the feeling of betrayal in her chest, of rage and grief making it worse—but she was making sure that she did her own part to defending her home while she was otherwise engaged.

(Caitlyn does her best not to think about the fact that she’s going off to fight against the Blight, a Blight that most people are convinced will never happen and a Blight that Cait wished she didn’t know was coming while at the same time she was happy that she got time to get used to the idea.)

“I’ve been thinking about expanding our food-stores,” Cait informed the dwarf and he looked at her in interest over his cup of tea, “is that something you can help with?”

“I’m always willing to lend a hand when it comes to a friend,” Dain informed her, a slight smile on his lips.

Caitlyn smiled back and set her cup down on the matching saucer before leaning forward; “Shall we plan?”

“Let’s,” the man agreed.

* * *

~ The ‘Nest’, Lowever, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~

The Nest—something the Little Birds had dubbed the room like they had dubbed their personal dorms the Roost—was a room near Giles’ office and in the part of Lowever that the Little Birds had claimed in their Lady’s name, and was filled with soft divans, over-stuffed chairs, plump cushions and thick blankets that Kenna had picked personally—all in shades of dark blue.

It was a room that Asaaranda preferred to curl up in while they read the tomes Surgeon Bellerose assigned them, a fountain-pen tucked behind one ear and their personal notebook next to them for any interesting notes.

“How’s the healing coming? Can you heal?” they asked Lileas as she came in and slumped into one of the nearby chairs, their hands pulling their cornrows braids back and tying the lot into a high-pony-tail to keep the white braids out of their eyes while being careful of the pen tucked behind their right ear.

“No,” Lileas answered, a frustrated note to her voice as she tucked an errand lock of ashy blonde hair behind one long pointed ear. “My magic isn’t made for it apparently.”

“Your magic is hard and sharp, not soft and mending,” Kenna spoke up from where she was sat in the middle of one of the divans, her legs crossed, her elbows balanced on her knees and her hands locked together as she balanced her chin on them with her dual-coloured eyes gazed into the middle of the room with that distance look that she sometimes got when she saw things others couldn’t, “it’s meant for spears of ice, bursts of scorching fire, and raging storms. Its shields humming against the skin, roots entangling limbs, earthen armour diamond hard. It’s fierce protection and battle-rage.”

“So, I am stuck being the only one keeping Lady Spitfire alive then,” Asaaranda sighed heavily, electing to ignore what Kenna had said—she’d probably forget that she said anything considering her state. “Hope you don’t mind scars, my Lady.”

“No, scars don’t bother me,” Kenna narrowed her eyes almost thoughtfully, her attention focused on something neither of others could, “not Cait’s scar or Fergus’ and not yours either.”

Asaaranda looked up with startled quicksilver eyes and exchanged a look with Lileas.

“Who are you seeing?” Lileas asked as she sat up straight, lips pursed in slight concern.

“I don’t know,” Kenna replied, a slight scowl of frustration appearing, “but he’s mine, he wears my symbol.”

And he did, as a golden stud in his left ear and in bold black lines across the left side of his throat was a stylised song-bird and a laurel.

He stared steadily at her, still and silent, with pale eyes that looked a greyish green from the distance she was viewing him from and looked paler because of the deep olive-tone of his skin.

His hair was a dark, inky black, cut almost military short with a few stray wisps that curled across his forehead. A dark scruff clung to his strong jaw and stopped under his sharp cheeks.

He wasn’t dressed in Kenna’s colours, not really, as his main colour seemed to be black; black trousers tucked into black boots, a black tunic and a long black leather coat that was especially designed not to hinder his movements or even close at the front.

The only spot of colour was the subtle difference between the black tunic and the midnight blue leather vest he wore over it with several belts of throwing knives strapped to it and the slightest glint of dull mental of the chainmail he wore under the vest.

The throwing-knives weren’t the only weapon he wore openly, there was a sword belted to his left side, a coil of weighted chain on the right side and two daggers sheathed in his boots—she had the feeling that those weren’t the only weapons he wore.

But the thing that stood out the most to Kenna? The silvery scars that covered most of the right side of his face, down his neck and taking a chunk of his right ear—mostly the lobe.

It was like something had clawed at his face, splitting his right thick eyebrow twice, over the eye—not seeming to have damaged it—down across his cheek to his jaw in three jagged lines.

There was two smaller scars, one that seemed to go straight through the line of his lips and one starting just under his lower lip and stopping near his chin, and his throat looked slightly clawed too.

“I don’t know you, but you are mine,” Kenna scowled at the future-phantom, and the left side of his lips twitched up in a small and short smile. “Who are you?”

He brushed one hand large hand against the tattoo on his throat as if it was an answer to her question, a flash of a scar encircling his wrist shown with the motion, and Kenna narrowed her eyes.

“….Shadow?” she asked tentatively, they were the only one she could think of, the only one that was hers that she was missing.

The man, tall and board-shouldered with surprisingly delicate wrists, gave the small twitch of a smile before fading from her sight with a bow of his head.

And Kenna knew.

A warm shadow at her back, a knife thrown over her shoulder at an enemy coming at her while she was distracted, a strong hand on her shoulder, a muscular chest under her cheek, the rhythmic sound of a whetstone across a blade, a large body curled around hers protectively, pale eyes watchful and cautious, long olive-toned fingers curling around her wrist with ease, a head resting on her thigh, her fingers threaded through short inky locks.

(Pale eyes wide, face looking strangely young in shock and grief, knees buckled as he dropped down next to her, big hands with long fingers trembled as he reached out to touch her face.

A wretched keening sound pulled from his throat as his fingers brushed against cooling skin, board shoulders bowing under grief as he collapsed over her, almost sheltering her from the rain pouring from the summoned storm.

Asaaranda’s hand, strong, on his shoulder as they squeezed in an attempt to comfort him, to anchor him, Lileas’ screaming, screaming as she ripped apart the battleground, as roots and ice, and the raging storm tore at her enemies for her as she stood unmoving in front of the still form of her Lady, her friend.)

Her Shadow with a face, but no name.

Her Shadow that was close and she needed to find him.

* * *

~ Alleys of Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~

“And how long as he been here?” Giles asked curiously as he leaned against the mouth of the alley and peered down to the little hidey-hole the ‘he’ in question had made for himself.

Not that he could see the guy from where he stood, what with Souren sat in front of him and blocking his line-of-view.

“About a week, possibly longer,” Itha informed him, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, grey eyes focused on where her twin sat.

“And you only now think to inform me?” Giles asked with a tone thick with judgement, brows raised as he glanced at her.

“You’d have scared him off,” Itha shrugged without apology as she glanced at back at him. “He’s only now become comfortable enough with us talking to him.”

“Why should I want him?” Giles asked after a moment, catching just a glimpse of short dark greasy hair and the hint of a deep olive-toned forehead.

“He’s quick, he’s clever enough to know when and which stalls to target to get his food, and he looks strong,” the elf shrugged lightly.

“The stall owners have gotten lazy in the last three years,” Giles snorted dismissively.

“He’s been trained to fight,” Itha told him, looking at him with sharp grey eyes. “It’s obvious he is from Tevinter even without the shackles still around his wrists.

He was resourceful enough to get from there to here, he hasn’t caused trouble, hasn’t attacked anyone, kept his head down and only stole enough to feed himself and even then Benji swears he saw him feed some scraps to one of the dogs which shows he has a heart.

He’s quick on his feet, gave us the run-around when we first noticed him, and it’s obvious that he’s strong, I doubt his muscles are for show.”

She paused, sharp eyes scanning his face briefly before adding the last thing.

“And I’m pretty sure he’s mute.”

Giles’ eyebrow arched in interest without his permission as he looked down the alley.

“You’re an arsehole, you know that?” Itha stated more than asked, her lips pursed with mild disapproval, but no surprise. “You find out he’s maybe mute and then you are interested.”

“Got to protect my Boss and her secrets,” Giles told her airily.

“I think he’d be good at protecting Boss,” Itha told him, “you’ve been complaining about trying to find someone to play body-guard for her. Well, ask and life delivers.”

“We’ll see,” Giles decided as he pushed off the wall and walked down the alley, towards the guy that Itha was convinced could protect Kenna.

He wasn’t convinced, not yet.

Pale eyes—a greenish grey with flakes of blue and brown—flickered to him as he neared and the guy tensed—board shoulders that spoke of training, muscular arms—though Souren just gently squeezed the hand in hers—iron shackle with just a hint of cut chain hanging from it was firmly wrapped around both thin wrists, bloodied by attempts to pull it or bash it off.

“It’s just Giles,” Souren soothed, aiming a smile in the vague area of the guy’s face, “he’s mostly harmless.”

“Especially up against you, I believe,” Giles smirked, sharp eyes taking in the guy’s face, the pink and red scars that covered the right half of his face, the strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the strong line of his nose and the thick brows, a hint of patchy scruff—the other guy had to be about a year or two years older than Giles was, fourteen or fifteen at least.

“You look like you could take me out without breaking a sweat,” Giles cocked his head, cat-like and his smirk widened, “not that it would be much of an achievement as I’m not really a fighter.”

He stepped a bit closer, and that strong jaw clenched as the other guy watched him closely but said nothing.

“But you, you look like a fighter,” Giles mused, pale blue eyes fixed on him, “though why Tevinter would train their slaves to fight, I don’t have a fuckin’ clue as it doesn’t seem smart to give people they abuse and supress the means to fight back,” _was that a vein pulsing in his throat? Hmm, struck a nerve perhaps_ , “but I suppose they don’t think they have to worry being mages and all.”

Still not a sound passed his lips as he watched Giles with distrust.

“Not going to say anything?” Giles asked, a slight taunt slipping into his tone, “can you even understand what I’m saying?”

He squeezed Souren’s hand once, his eyes not leaving Giles.

“Yes,” she said, glancing over towards Giles with her unseeing eyes, “we worked out a system, one squeeze for yes, two for no.”

“Huh,” Giles’ eyes tranced the scars—thick and still red—that marred the right side of his throat and almost crossed over his Adam’s apple, maybe he was really mute after all. “Has anyone told you about our Boss?”

“Yes,” Souren answered after he squeezed her hand.

“We told him about her, Giles,” Itha added as she hovered behind him.

“I care about her a great deal,” Giles continued after a moment, “she’s different compared to most nobles, and she has a habit of involving herself in trouble. Like I said before, I’m not much of a fighter and I need someone that is and that can keep up with her, can keep her safe. For some reason, they think you would suit her,” he paused as he watched the other guy, “but I don’t know. How do I know you won’t try and hurt her?”

“No,” Souren said after he squeezed her hand twice quickly.

“Why not? Because you care about Souren and Itha?” he asked with raised brows making him squeeze the elf’s hand once. “Think you could care about our Boss?”

“Yes,” Souren smiled as she answered for him.

“Come on, Giles,” Itha huffed behind him, “we both know you’re just being an arse now.”

“Hmm,” Giles studied the young man for a moment, eyes considering, “I suppose we’ll have to see what Boss says, won’t we?”

* * *

Whatever Giles had been expecting when the runaway followed him into the Nest to see Boss, it wasn’t Kenna’s face lighting up as she stood.

She stood up and walked over without a trace of worry, a grin on her face as the young man stared down at her with confused pale eyes.

“You kept me waiting a long time, Shadow,” she informed him, sounding too damn fond for Giles’ liking and reaching out and cupping his right cheek. “Welcome home.”

Dark lashes fluttered as one big hand reached up and held her hand close to his cheek, his whole face softening under her gentle touch and easy acceptance.

“I told you he’d suit her,” Itha elbowed Giles in the side and he hissed, affronted, and glared at the elf.

“I hate and blame you for this,” he waved his clawed hand towards where ‘Shadow’ slumping into the much shorter Kenna.

“What’s he doing?” Souren frowned towards the vague direction of Kenna’s voice—“Asaaranda, can you come and look him over? Lileas? Could you get a bath ready and some spare clothes? I’ll need to get the seamstress here, and the cobbler, oh, I should let Nan know to get a room ready for him.”

“Currently?” Itha smirked, smug in a way that made Giles want to hit her—he wondered if that’s how Boss felt when he smirked and was suddenly more understanding of the way her hand sometimes twitched like she was going to hit him. “He’s purring under her touch and staring at her with full-blown devotion, she’s adopted him fully, named him and everything.”

“He’s like a starving mutt been given food,” Giles snorted, glaring unhappily.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Itha informed him, still smirking, and Giles sneered at her.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

_“It’s like being a block of stone with a sculptor working on you. One day, the last of the crap gets knocked off, and you can see your real shape, what you’re supposed to be.”_ –The Iron Bull, Leader of the Bull’s Chargers, ex-Ben-Hassrath, Agent of the Inquisition, Former Body-guard of the Inquisitor.

* * *

Kenna Cousland, Asaaranda had learnt almost as soon as they met the young noble, was a force of nature that bowled over anything in the way of getting what she wanted no matter anyone else’s complaints—as Asaaranda had learnt with said noble attached to their wrist as she barter with their mother over Kenna kidnapping them.

The new guy, Shadow, however, was taking it in stride in a way that Asaaranda hadn’t really seen before—at least not straight way, Lileas spoke fondly of the early days with Kenna, getting used to the stubborn noble that had decided they were friends.

He kept his eyes fixed on Kenna, on her face as she spoke and ordered, and kept one of his large hands wrapped around Kenna’s golden wrist—a mimic to how she would wrap her golden fingers around Lileas’, Giles’ and Asaaranda’s wrists, it was strange to see that gesture being used on Kenna.

He followed on her heels as she moved around, he kept still when the shackles were cut and removed from his poor abused wrists and allowed Asaaranda to clean them and survey them before Kenna shuffled him off for his bath with a bundle of clean clothing that Lileas had gone to receive while informing Nan on the new addition.

He hesitated briefly, glancing at Kenna with a strange longing when it became clear that she wouldn’t be entering the baths—there was several baths in Lowever, all build for communal bathing—but finally entered it when Kenna waved him off with clear fondness—the same instance fondness that she had bestowed on Asaaranda, Giles and Lileas in the past, affection mixed with protective possession.

When he came back, he patiently sat while Asaaranda bandaged his wrists and gave him a good look-over just in case there was some other wounds—apart from his feet having several blisters, he was uninjured—as long as he could see Kenna, pale eyes focused solely on her, jaw clenching the only sign of any pain as Asaaranda cleaned his damaged wrists and bandaged them and carefully wrapped his feet so not to burst the blisters.

It was strange, Asaaranda mused thoughtfully, that Shadow had taken to Kenna almost as quickly as Kenna took to him without the advantage of her foresight.

Shadow looked at Kenna like he had been lost at sea and she was his safe harbour from the storm.

The guarded tension that had been running through him when he first stepped into the Nest behind Giles had disappeared almost as soon as Kenna had cupped his cheek and smiled at him—instance fondness, effortlessly given protection, Kenna all over—and hadn’t returned once.

Asaaranda sat on one of the divan, lounging back, and continued to watch as Shadow wrapped one hand back around Kenna’s wrist and Kenna smiled at him, wide and affectionate, before she returned to speaking with Lileas and twins.

Giles slumped beside them, a disgruntled scowl on his face as he watched.

“What’s wrong with you?” they asked after a moment of watching the scowl deepen on the young man’s face as Shadow seemed happy just to bask next to Kenna, “I thought you would happy that she now has a body-guard—that’s why you brought him here, right?”

“She wasn’t meant to take to him like that,” Giles scowled deeper. “She walked right up to him with no hesitation, no doubt, just accepted him as hers without a thought that he may attack her.”

Asaaranda snorted, amused, and Giles glared at them, lip curling up in a snarl at the sound of their amusement.

“You finally realise how terrifying it is, haven’t you?” Asaaranda leaned back, adjusting their vest that was cut in a way that suggested that they could have breasts, and grinned at him absolutely thrilled by his misery and frustration—they had almost despaired that no-one else would realise outside the core-group that Kenna contrasted around her, hoarded close like a dragon would its gold. “How much she trusts complete strangers without second thought based on what she’s foreseen.”

“Fuck,” Giles gritted his teeth in frustration, with him, her or them, they didn’t know and frankly didn’t care, “when did you realise?”

“I knew from the start,” Asaaranda snorted with little humour this time, “she just came up to me and bluntly declared she was kidnapping me, she didn’t even know my name and she didn’t _care_. My mother could have killed her where she stood, and she didn’t even hesitate because I was _hers,_ and nothing else matter.”

Asaaranda didn’t know how to fully explain it.

Didn’t know how the explain the shock they felt when a hand—so small, so delicate, becoming rough and tough from constant weapons practise—wrapping around their wrist, a shock that made them stop and turn.

Didn’t know how to explain the depth of their annoyance of seeing a small noble girl holding them, how that annoyance swiftly turned to confusion as they noticed the sheer depth of affection and determination in the dual-coloured eyes staring up at them.

Didn’t know how to explain how their breath caught in their throat when the noble—small, delicate, annoying, confusing, foolish noble—turned towards their mother with a stubbornly set jaw and bluntly declared that she was ‘kidnapping’ them.

Their mother had killed before to protect them, to stop people trying to take them, or harm them, and part of them had been terrified that Mother would lash out towards this young—and stupid—noble girl so had erupted into offended protests to try and make the girl drop her joke.

Mother had been able to see what Asaaranda hadn’t, that Kenna hadn’t been joking, that she had been determined that Asaaranda was hers and would be going home with her.

They would always remember the way Mother had laughed, loud and bright, absolutely delighted and thrilled by this sudden turn of events.

Mother had looked at Kenna—stubborn, determined, foolish Kenna—and dared her to impress her, to show her why she should leave her only child in this noble child’s care, and Kenna—stubborn, determined, loving Kenna—did without hesitation all because Asaaranda was hers, was meant to be hers, and she wouldn’t let anyone stop her from claiming them, from protecting them, providing and hoarding them.

“Fuck,” Giles let his head drop into his hand, “I laughed when Lileas told me what she did, I didn’t even think what could wrong. Fuck, she’s going to keep doing this, isn’t she?”

Asaaranda thought of Lileas’ story—of golden fingers wrapping around her slender wrist, of a set-jaw as they marched into the Teyrn’s study, of the silent dare in the tilt of Kenna’s chin as she announced that Lileas was going to be her lady-in-waiting—and of Giles—of dual-coloured eyes gleaming with smug amusement, of steamrolling over his carefully scripted plan and claiming him before he could try and claim her—and knew without a doubt.

“Oh yeah,” they grinned, amused more than sympathetic as they patted Giles on the back.

“She’s going to get herself killed doing this,” he bemoaned into his hand making them almost snicker.

“She’ll have Shadow right behind her from now on,” Asaaranda offered helpfully.

“That’s not helping,” he informed them without looking up.

“Oh, I know,” Asaaranda let out a throaty laugh, completely delighted by this turn of events.

Finally, finally someone else saw just how much trouble Kenna Cousland was, and would willingly walk into.

It was glorious to behold.  

“Maker, you are an arsehole,” Giles informed them dully, peeking up with one pale blue eye.

“Thank you,” Asaaranda almost beamed at him as they lounged back against the divan, quicksilver eyes bright with amusement and their smile sharp—they felt they understood Mother complete amusement over Kenna a lot better now.

* * *

~ Caitlyn’s Study, Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 ~

To be completely honest, Caitlyn wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than the Adaar Situation.

On the one hand, she wouldn’t be verbally sparring with an overly amused sea-fraying mother under her father’s eyes, and there was no kidnapping involved—which was a good thing, three years without Kenna attempting (succeeding) to kidnap someone was a good thing.

On the other hand, it was a Tevinter slave that had been obviously trained—as a mage-killer, a body-guard or a gladiator for their version of the Provings, Cait didn’t know and she wasn’t sure how to ask—something that meant someone had spent money to train him, had invested in him—and was probably not happy that he had escaped and ran—and he was closer to Cait’s own age then Kenna’s—something Fergus wouldn’t approve of, he wasn’t that happy that Asaaranda and Giles were both three-years older than Kenna as Kenna slowly reached the age where she would be considered a woman.

Cait glanced at Kenna and almost wanted to sigh at the familiar expression—jaw-set, chin tilted, a silent dare in her dual-coloured eyes—that set on the younger girl’s face as she stared back from her position standing just in front of the young man—Shadow, Kenna proclaimed, and he hadn’t said anything against the name—with one of his big hands wrapped around her wrist—Maker, it was strange to see that gesture used by someone else, and it made Caitlyn realise just how thin, delicate, Kenna’s wrists were.

Lileas stood on Kenna’s over side, a helplessly fond look of resignation on her face as she stood with her hands clasped modestly in front of her and patiently waited for Cait’s word—calm in a way she hadn’t been three-years back when Kenna had arrived with two Qunari in tow and a proud declaration that she was kidnapping Asaaranda.

Said Qunari had taken a seat beside Davia on the divan with a little nod and ignoring this stand-off with almost as much ease as the dwarf as they read their book—Davia had looked up when the group had entered, her lips twitched up into a brief smile, before she turned her attention back to more important things like her current designs.

Giles leaned back against the armrest of the divan next to Asaaranda, arms crossed his chest and a frustrated pale blue glare focused on Shadow’s back—an interesting thing to see considering Cait had been ready to lay Shadow as his fault since Alouette had been able to inform her that the young man had been looking for a body-guard for Kenna.

Alouette was mirroring Giles’ posture against Cait’s desk, though her dark eyes were watching with interest and a mild spark of amusement.

Rosina stood beside Cait’s chair, pale-green eyes focused on her own sister and a silent look of disapproval sent her way—the silent question, accusation; “you let this happen again?” obvious to all—while Lileas kept her own pale-green gaze away from her sister.

Nan hovered by the door with her arms crossed and a smug look on her wrinkled face—Nan had been proclaiming just how much trouble Kenna was and would continue to be from the moment Kenna had worked out how to walk, and everyone had learnt to ignore her, so Caitlyn supposed that Nan was entitled to the silent ‘I told you so’ smugness.

With a tired sigh—and a new headache making itself known—Cait turned her attention back to Shadow.

He was tall—taller than Giles, maybe the same height of Asaaranda—with board shoulders that taper down into a narrow waist.

His short dark hair was still damp, his olive-toned skin was freshly scrubbed, and he was wearing an old beige tunic that Fergus wore to train in and a pair of Bran’s dark trousers with what Cait presumed was his own boots as they were worn and covered in dried mud.

The scars on the right half of his face and curling around his throat were an angry pink, still relatively new, and while some were clearly the result of a blade, some were clearly claw marks—be it the claws of an animal or a demon, Cait didn’t know.

He stood with his back straight, his feet set almost shoulders-width apart and one arm folded behind his back while his other hand kept its grip around Kenna’s wrist.

He was still and silent, his breathing even and calm as he stared forward with pale eyes, but he wasn’t unaffected by her close scrutiny as he would like Cait to believe if one looked at the way his fingers flexed around Kenna’s wrist.

Caitlyn sighed again before turning her gaze towards Giles.

“Explain,” she told him, almost wearily.

Giles blinked back at her, nonplussed; “Why me?”

“Because I know you wanted a body-guard, and now here he is,” Caitlyn gestured to the silent Shadow, “explain what you know.”

“Cait—” Kenna began, and Caitlyn gave her sister a look that quietened her with a displeased pout.

“The Birds picked up on him about a week ago and kept the standard watch on him to see what he’d do,” Giles shrugged one shoulder idly, “he’s not the first slave from Tevinter that’s turned up and he’s probably not going to be the last. We don’t crowd them though we watch them, most leave soon enough, get away from the port, and the ones that don’t, we approach carefully and offer information, help, whatever.”

“And how did this offer of help turn into this?” Cait gestured to Shadow’s hand still wrapped around Kenna’s wrist.

“Itha and Souren were the ones that picked up on him,” Giles shrugged lightly again, “they decided that he would be useful.”

“How?” Caitlyn flickered a glance over to Shadow, who didn’t seem bothered by them discussing him though Kenna’s pout of displeasure—and it was a pout, not a scowl—had deepened.

“He was smart,” Giles pursed his lips slightly, “he figured out how to feed himself without drawing attention to himself, caused no suspicion and was fast. He’s obviously trained, probably strong considering his muscle-tone, and he’s quiet,” Giles’ lips twitched into a hint of a smirk at the last one which Caitlyn decided to ignore, “they thought he would be a useful candidate for Boss’ body-guard, and had spent the last few days talking to him, building up Boss and what we do—a good recruitment pitch by all accounts considering he was still there when I arrived.

So, I decided after a nice little chat—mostly one-sided—that I would take him to see Boss, see if she’d like him, and well,” Giles gestured with his crippled hand at Kenna and Shadow, “she liked him, named him and everything, so yeah, here we are and apparently we’re keeping him.”

“She named him?” Alouette repeated almost flatly, turning her gaze to Kenna, “you named him?”

“Sort of?” Kenna chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, “it was meant to be a nickname? But he seems to like it and it’s not like he offered another name.”

“He’s mute,” Giles offered with a light tone, a smirk curling at his lips, and Kenna blinked up at Shadow.

“Oh,” she paused before looking at Alouette, “so, yeah, I did name him.”

“Can’t give back now,” Giles began in that taunting tone of his, “she’s named him and everything.”

“He’s not a dog,” Caitlyn gave the young boy a flat disapproving look. “Don’t compare him to a dog.”

“But he’s already acting like a good little guard-dog,” Giles smirked right at Shadow.

Shadow turned his head and gave him a flat look in response to his taunt.

“Giles,” Kenna snapped, scowling at her friend and Giles held up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry,” he offered with no sincerity, pale blue eyes fixed on Shadow’s pale greenish grey ones. “Sometimes I can’t help myself, it’s an illness, really.”

Asaaranda snorted, loudly, without looking up from their book.

“Giles,” Kenna repeated, scowling and Giles smirked as he leaned back, but kept his mouth shut this time.

“Kenna,” Caitlyn sighed making her sister look at her, jaw clenching and chin tilting up.

“He’s mine, Cait,” she told her older sister firmly, “like Lileas, Giles and Asaaranda are mine, like Rosina, Davia and Alouette are yours.”

Caitlyn rubbed at her temples before she looked at Shadow.

“Do you prefer the name Shadow?” she asked, and he nodded making her nod in return. “Very well, then that’s how we will refer you as.

You now are a part of Kenna’s personal Household, you will have your own room located near to the family wing and while servants will go in to clean it, you have the right to refuse entry to anyone else.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner are served in the main hall, you can have it arranged so you can have lunch somewhere else or join my sister when she has lunch.

Other the next few days, we will deal with equipping you with a wardrobe and armour.

Whatever weapons you have previously trained in or want to be trained with are under the control of Ser Kenneth Nolan, the commander of our army, and he will decide when you will get proper weapons made for you.

Because your position will be mainly as Kenna’s body-guard, I will put you under the direct supervision of Ser Kenneth. He will go over your training, pin-point where you need improvement and make sure you have a trainer suited to you. Are you with me so far?” Caitlyn paused and waited for Shadow to nod his understanding. “I will be talking with our sage, Aldous, about your education needs—reading, writing and such—and he will contact you when he has come up with a lesson plan that will suit you and your needs.

You will be allotted a set wage as Kenna’s body-guard, you may do what you wish with the money and no one will take it from you, that goes with your belongings too—they are yours and no one has the right to take them from you. Do you understand?” Caitlyn again awaited for Shadow to nod. “Good, at the moment you will not be needed as a body-guard nor will you be trusted as my sister’s sole defender.

Kenna keeps mostly to the safety of the castle, and always has a Knight with her when she ventures outside—that will not change despite your position, and will continue to be so until Ser Kenneth declares you able as a body-guard and trusts you enough to take off the Knight detail on my sister, do you understand?”

Shadow nodded, thick brows slightly furrowed as he listened and committed everything to memory.

Caitlyn eyed him before nodding sharply.

“Very well, I believe that is all for now,” Caitlyn decided with hint of dismissal in her tone, “I will contact you if I have any other thoughts, and no doubt Nan wishes to show you to your room.”

“I’ve already finished setting it up for you,” Nan informed the young man, smugness still visible in the set of her wrinkles.

“Then I will show you the way to my room,” Kenna informed him without a second thought.

Fergus was going to throw a fit, Cait realised dimly, especially if he found Shadow in Kenna’s room, on her bed.

“Rosina,” Caitlyn sighed deeply, firming deciding to deal with her brother when she had to and not a moment more, “the blue tea please.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Rosina gave one last disapproving glance towards her sister before swishing over to the sideboard with a tea-cupboard placed on top and an enchanted teapot, pulling open the blue painted draw for that tea as Kenna lead the way behind Nan as the group left.

“Ten silvers that Lord Fergus throws a fit,” Alouette piped up almost as soon as the door closed while Rosina busied herself with making the tea.

“Suckers’ bet,” Davia decided without looking up. “Ten silvers says that Captain Bran does that eye-twitch thing when he returns.”

Alouette laughed lightly.

“That’s a suckers’ bet too,” the Bard informed the dwarf brightly.

Davia’s lip twitched upwards into a grin, amused, but kept her eyes focused on her book.

“She’s going to be the cause behind all my grey hairs,” Caitlyn complained as she rubbed her temples with her eyes closed—she was also the cause behind most of Caitlyn’s tension headaches.

“She’s the reason why I have decided I don’t want children,” Alouette informed her with a trance of laughter still in her voice, moving and placing her hands-on Caitlyn’s shoulders to begin to massage the tension out. “I’m glad she’s not mine.”

Cait decided to ignore that, she had stopped denying that Kenna was hers over two years ago.

“Here, my Lady,” Rosina placed down the teacup and saucer in front of her.

“Thank you, Rosina,” Cait opened her eyes and took the teacup, inhaling the smell deeply for a moment as Alouette rubbed and dug her fingers into the knots of tension in her shoulders and upper back.

* * *

Whatever fit Fergus did end up throwing, it was kept from Kenna by both Caitlyn and Oriana though she did see her oldest brother glowering at Shadow whenever he caught sight of the younger man.

Kenna ignored it, she knew he would get used to Shadow sooner or later, and just did her best to make sure Shadow settled in happily.

She also tried her best to ignore the pool of dread bubbling in her stomach, the feel of sand drifting through her fingers and down a into an hour-glass, the feeling of time running out.

A feeling that got worse when King Maric disappeared a year later, his ship lost at sea, and Bran being one of the many sent out to look for him.

He wasn’t found, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir spent six-months looking for him, pushing the Landsmeet to keep looking for him, before finally Cailan was crowned and put on the throne.

He married Anora a month later, and Bran came open with a broken heart and refused to go back to Denerim.

Time was running out, _cooper and iron thick so thick in the air she could taste it_ , the Alienage was being finished as quickly as possible as Caitlyn began to stock-pile supplies, _betrayal and rage twisted in her chest_ , Oren kept growing under Fergus’ careful and worried eyes, _his voice trembling in relief and pain_ , and Kenna kept pushing herself, _blood spluttered hotly across her face_ , Bran was beginning to look worried, _he would drink from the poisoned chalice_.

And then, time truly began to run out as the Grey Wardens began to give warnings of a coming Blight.

And Kenna knew, with deep cold certainty, that it was beginning.

The end of safety, of childhood, of innocence.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

_“You will guard them, and they will hate you for it. Whenever there is not a Blight actively crawling over the surface, humanity will do its best to forget how much they need you. And that’s good._

_We need to stand apart from them, even if they have to push away to make us do it._

_That is the only way we can ever make the hard decisions.”_ –Warden Commander Kristoff, Commander of the Grey of Orlais during the Blessed Age.

* * *

It was easy, Caitlyn would reflect, to ignore what they knew, what they had been told—" _they gutted him like an animal, Cait,”_ Kenna whimpered into her neck—when the future seemed so far away and to focus on the now, the immediate future, and leave the horror that was to come in the back of their minds.

Everything seemed to be going well, Caitlyn thought with a mournful twist of her mouth.

The Alienage was finished, the elves had moved into their new homes with much happiness, old warehouses were turned into hostels for the poor and homeless, supplies and rations were being hoarded in Lowever.

Kenna’s Little Birds continued to spread their wings, going further then Caitlyn thought possible across Ferelden under Giles’ sharp eyes and sharper mind—Alouette was rather impressed by Giles’ ever-expanding reach and kept Caitlyn abreast of things through her cousin, Benji.

Her Shadow settled in, following behind her sister with a level of devotion that made it easy to why Giles tauntingly called him a dog and so closely that the name Shadow seemed very adapt—Caitlyn still wasn’t sure if the man was actually mute or just stayed silent by choice, it wasn’t like he needed to talk as Kenna seemed to just know what he thinking with a look though he had picked up the sign-language that the Little Birds had made up with a mixture of elven, dwarven, qunari and soldier hand-signals with some of their own twist.

Asaaranda learnt all they could from Surgeon Bellerose, devoured all his books and absorbed all his teachings with a keen mind and a steady hand in a way that surprised everyone apart from Kenna— _“They’re more settled as a Healer than a Killer,”_ Kenna remarked once, eyes distant, _“they are happier here than they would have been if they wasn’t mine—it would have torn at them, burdened them horribly, I couldn’t let that happen.”_

Lileas grew more confident, settled in herself in a different way to how Rosina did under Cait’s watchful eye.

The elf stood strong and straight-backed beside Kenna, a hidden strength in pale green eyes—she still wore the first necklace Kenna got her, a gold chain of laurel leaves clasping an egg-sized and shaped blue crystal though the chain had been lengthened over the years.

Rosina stood with a more reserved air compared to her younger sister, though Caitlyn would never call her meek.

Rosina allowed herself to fade in the background, a constant presence that most overlooked, while Lileas was front and centre next to Kenna, there and unforgettable.

Caitlyn supposed the real difference was how they moulded themselves to fit their own Cousland sister.

(Caitlyn’s wars would be fought with words and wit, with sharp smiles and honeyed lies to her enemies and rivals while Kenna would fight her wars with swords and determination, with sharp blades and the promise of death to her enemies.

Rosina could afford to let herself be overlooked, could help Caitlyn by being unseen while Lileas couldn’t do that, would waged through blood beside Kenna with her steady strength.)

Dain Cadash did not have to worry about the more unsavoury branch of House Cadash going to unreasonable lengths to acquire Davia as one of theirs, not when she was firmly cemented as Caitlyn’s, visibly by her side and known far too well for them to take her without a fuss.

Bran kept himself busy with Highever’s navy, kept his distance from Denerim—it may have made her brother miserable as he mourned his first love (doomed though it was), it relieved Caitlyn greatly that he hadn’t let his heart rule his mind more than he already had.

(Anora had enough pressure being placed on her to deliver a royal heir without her brother around—his romantic history with Calian to add to more burdens to her, and Cait didn’t want that for her older friend.)

Fergus had settled himself in Highever’s army, seemingly resigned to never escaping paper-work, and delighted with every mile-stone that Oren reached—Oriana had mentioned about trying for another child, of giving Oren a younger sibling to look after and teach.

Kenna had finally proved everyone wrong about her height, catching up to Caitlyn’s height of five foot seven and with the possibility of being even taller—to Kenna’s smug delight when they finally noticed considering Cait often wore small heels and Kenna kept to leather boots with a hidden steel-toe-caps.

(Giles took great delight in still being taller than his Boss, often propping one of his elbows on her shoulder with a smug smirk until she jabbed one pointy elbow into his side with a scowl that was still more of a pout.)

They were happy, settled, everything was going so well, and then word was sent out.

The Grey Wardens had spoken, a Blight was coming.

And Caitlyn could feel the happiness, the peace, they had built over the years shatter around them, could almost taste the coppery blood—her family’s blood—on her tongue.

( _The silence was stilted, filled with tension between the siblings._

_Bran stood at the window, eyes fixed towards the harbour, hands balled into fists behind his back and clearly visible to the rest of them._

_Fergus leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, one arm crossed over his broad chest and a tanned hand scrubbing across his bearded jaw._

_Caitlyn rubbed the band of golden rose ring on her right middle finger with her thumb as she sat rigidly on the divan._

_Kenna sat rather slumped beside her, feet set and arms resting of her spread knees—Mother would be aghast at her unladylike posture and positioning—as she twisted a slender dagger in her hands as her jaw clenched and unclenched._

_“How will we know…?” Fergus trailed off, breaking the silence, and Bran’s fists tightened—his careful distance to Kenna’s ability being shattered._

_“The mage with sky-blue eyes,” Kenna answered after a moment, jaw working, “the Wardens, they are the herald of what is to come.”_

_They are the herald of the death of their family, Kenna doesn’t say, but it was heard._

_“Well,” Caitlyn stood and pressed down her skirt with a hand that traitorously trembled for the briefest moment, “we should begin to prepare.”_

_“I will get the Little Birds to keep an eye out,” Kenna stood in one fluid motion, a movement filled with a warrior’s power compared to Caitlyn’s ladylike elegance, “there has to be some sign of the attack being planned, we just have to find it.”_

_Her jaw clenched, determination flaring in her dual-coloured gaze._

_“I’ll drill the soldiers harder, get them as prepared as possible,” Fergus decided, pushing off the mantle, his hands shoved into the pockets of the leather double-breasted jacket that Kenna had gotten him for his last birthday._

_They paused as they glanced towards Bran._

_“I’ll speak to Art,” he finally said without looking at them, “we’ll have our own plan if it truly comes to it.”_

_It was the best they could do, all knew that Father would never believe them without proof of their fears—" **he never listens,”** Kenna’s angry sob echoed in the back of her mind warned her._)

Caitlyn could feel it, the executor’s sword hanging over her neck, the pendulum swaying, the grains of sand running out.

The end of halcyon days was coming swiftly, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

* * *

~ Family Wing, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Lileas tied off the end of her braid, arranging it so it flowed over her left shoulder and hide the stylised bird and laurel tattoo behind her left ear.

Pale eyes met hers through the mirror, Shadow lounged back against the pillows and on top of the covers—Nan would erupt if she ever found him under them—and almost fully dressed—his jacket and vest were thrown carelessly over the top of the chest at the end of the bed from when he entered in the middle of the night—with Kenna’s head resting peacefully on his chest, one hand holding a fistful of his black tunic.

She twisted on the stool of the vanity to face the bed, a frown of worry creasing her features as she noticed how the thin skin around Kenna’s eyes were bruised.

“Breakfast will be soon,” Lileas reminded the older man, “and you know she wouldn’t be happy if she didn’t do her stretches.”

Shadow twisted his lips unhappily, the arm wrapped around Kenna’s slender waist tightened briefly, obviously not happy with the thought of waking her from her peaceful slumber.

Lileas simply raised one pale brow at him making him sigh through his nose in mild frustration before he finally turned to wake their sleeping Lady.

His free hand reached up and tapped at her cheek making Kenna scrunch up her mouth with an annoyed sound.

He huffed out fondly as he tapped her cheek again more firmly making her open one eye to glare sleepily up at him.

“What..?” she demanded, voice thick with sleep.

“Breakfast will be laid out soon and you’re still in bed,” Lileas spoke up as she stood and strode over to the bed, “while we are ready and waiting.”

“I can have a late breakfast,” Kenna rubbed her cheek against the dark tunic Shadow wore as Lileas stood at the side that normally contained her bed—she had already slid it away under Kenna’s bed after they woke up in the middle of the night because of her nightmare and slept the rest of the night plastered to Kenna’s back.

“Not when Arl Howe is meant to arrive sometime today,” Lileas flipped up the covers making Kenna curl up with a whine for the briefest moment before she surrendered to Lileas and flopped on her back with a tired groan as she roughly rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palms.

“Damn,” Kenna muttered—the only swear word that she would say without wincing and looking for a disapproving Nan. “I almost forgot about him.”

“I’m sure he wishes his son would forget about you,” Lileas said dryly making Kenna peer up at her with a grin.

“Yeah,” Kenna’s grin turned smug, “Thomas has been threating to seriously elope with me these last few months—it’s driving Howe insane.”

Shadow scowled as he sat up—neither Giles nor Shadow had been impressed by Thomas Howe declaration of eloping with Kenna if his father continued to push for him to court Caitlyn.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t show such smug delight when you greet him later,” the blonde offered with the same dry tone.

“Trust me,” Kenna sat up and stretched, her nightgown slipping slightly off her shoulder. “It’s hard to drum up any type of delight around that man.”

Lileas rolled her eyes at her friend before turning to Shadow with a raised brow.

“Don’t you need to finish getting ready before breakfast?” Lileas asked him making him nod in agreement.

He laid one hand on Kenna’s shoulder, fingers brushing the inked skin of her shoulder-blade and waited for her to turn his way before he pressed his forehead against hers.

“Morning to you too,” Kenna smiled, her hand reaching up and laying against the stylised songbird and laurel covering the left side of his throat, “thanks for staying with me.”

Shadow’s hand squeezed her shoulder, a silent “anytime” clear to her, before he pulled back and swung his legs off the bed and reached for his boots as the door swung up with a creak.

“You know,” Asaaranda mused as they leaned in the doorway with a metal mug clutched close to their chest, watching as Shadow began to lace up his boots with quick movements of his hands and Kenna rolled out of bed and grimacing as the chill of stone under her thickly socked feet. “Lord Fergus will kill you for sneaking into his little Spitfire’s bed.”

“He can try,” the easy shrug and the hint of a grin peeking out from his scruff informed them as Shadow stood and went to get his vest and jacket.

“I’m not going to patch you up when he does,” the Qunari snorted, quicksilver eyes scanning their Lady and friend critically. “How are you today, Lady Spitfire?”

“Tired,” Kenna yawned so wide that her jaw almost popped as she settled into the series of stretches she did every morning before she clenched her jaw and scowled, “annoyed, frustrated, I hate that dream.”

Lileas’ lips tightened while Shadow slowed in folding his jacket over one arm.

“So, would I,” Asaaranda replied as they sipped at their tea—all of them were aware of just what dream kept plaguing her.

They knew of blood thick in the air, strong enough to taste, of the clash of blades and the shouts and screams of soldiers, of betrayal beating like a war-drum in her chest, of a blood-soaked hand reaching out, a voice trembling with relief and pain.

“Giles is going over everything that’s been sent his way these last few months,” Asaaranda frowned thoughtfully at their tea, “he may be sleeping less than you at the moment.”

“He needs his rest,” Kenna frowned, sliding through each stretch automatically.

“So, do you,” Asaaranda retorted, shrugging one shoulder, “you know he’d say something like that, and he’s almost as stubborn as you are—which is a major accomplishment there.”

Kenna huffed almost angrily, but none of them missed the smile tugging at her lips.

“Lady Kenna still needs to wash and dress,” Lileas stepped forward, looking pointedly at both Shadow and Asaaranda, “if you would both leave?”

Shadow nodded while Asaaranda rolled their eyes but stepped out of the doorway so Shadow could leave.

“Thank you,” Lileas told them almost primly as she shut the door in their face.

“You always get so worked up in the morning,” Kenna almost chuckled, shrugging off her nightgown without a second thought and padding towards the bathing area with an absent stretch of her back, the inked laurel leaves that made up a pair of wings on her back rippling with the movement.

“Because one day, Nan will surprise us by coming to wake us up,” Lileas explained as she moved to get Kenna’s clothing for the day—or just the morning really if she decided to avoid Arl Howe by training. “And you know how she would react to find Shadow here.”

“She’d pull us by our ears to the dining hall while ranting so everyone would know,” Kenna spoke from behind the divider, a grin almost audible to Lileas’ ears.

“That shouldn’t make you smile, Kenna,” Lileas chided, smiling despite herself.

Kenna just laughed, bright in a way that warmed Lileas’ heart, in a way that didn’t speak of the dark turns of her dreams, of blood and terror, of rage and betrayal.

No, her laugh was warm and bright and simply Kenna.

And Lileas treasured that laugh, that spot of brightness and light, because she knew like Kenna knew, like Giles, Asaaranda and Shadow knew, that such happy and light times were going to be rare in days to come.

The Blight was here, soon the enemy would be knocking at their doors.

* * *

~ Southern Gate, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

 _This was Nelaros was from_ , Sirena Tabris thought to herself as she looked around with keen golden eyes, the twisted golden five-strand-ring her right ring finger suddenly felt like it weighted a ton—the only thing to remind her of the elf she was meant to marry, a man that was kind and came for her, who died for her—and she clenched her hands more tightly around the reins of the grey mare she had been given for this recruitment errand.

There was a different air to Highever than there was to Denerim, the smell of the sea stronger and mixing with dozens of others coming from market.

The people were well-feed, no gaunt cheeks, and seemed happy though there was a cloud of worry in the air as they rode passed soldiers saying goodbye to their families and sweethearts.

“I thought you were just here a couple of months back, Duncan,” Sirena called to her Commander, very much aware of how the Dalish on the back of her saddle was now leaning further into her, breathing deep and laboured against the back of her neck—he was worsening, Sirena didn’t know if he would survive the journey back to Ostagar even with the mage’s assistance.

“I was,” Duncan agreed calmly, Ciarron Amell holding on to him tightly and staring down at the ground with great—and understandable—weariness. “But the Cousland siblings weren’t all under the same roof back then.”

“You’re going to try and recruit one of the Teyrn’s children?” Ciarron asked incredulously, sky-blue eye jerking up and widening—well-informed for a bloke that grew up in a tower, though she supposed the Couslands would be mentioned in history books.

It was a feeling Sirena whole-heartedly agreed with.

The last time Sirena had dealt with a noble—an Arl’s son—she ended up killing him, a group of guards and two of his noble friends—causing a river of blood to run through Denerim according to one guard.

It was something that would have seen her tortured in the Fort before hanging from her neck if Duncan hadn’t stepped in—apparently having a massacre to her name said she had all the skills a Grey Warden needed.

“Perhaps,” Duncan replied in that same calm voice that Sirena didn’t trust.

Such calm—such indifferent—wasn’t something easily donned and then discarded.

Alistair may trust Duncan, may believe he’s a good man, but Sirena had grown up in Denerim’s Alienage, and she didn’t trust so easily, didn’t believe in the goodness of people—especially not people like Duncan, calm and detached Duncan, a Grey Warden through and through.

(Durinn had grown up as a dwarven Prince, had dealt with life-threatening politics, and his younger brother plotted against him and his older brother—a plot that led to Trian’s death and Durinn’s exile—and likewise didn’t trust easily.

Durinn had chosen to join the Wardens for survival, because it was easier to find them then to blunder around and look for the Legion of the Dead, because he wasn’t going to let exile destroy him, wouldn’t let Bhelen’s plot kill him—Sirena had joked that he survived the Joining out of sheer spite and while Durinn had smiled, he didn’t disagree.)

Duncan may have saved her from the noose—which she was grateful for, not saying she wasn’t—and may have known her mother, but Sirena knew that he wouldn’t have stepped in if he hadn’t seen her as valuable, her skill carefully developed and hidden from the city-guards, and her ability to kill a high number of people in a relatively short time made her valuable.

It was no lingering fondness for her dead mother, no kind gesture to save a young elven girl from the noose.

No, it boiled down to the fact there was a Blight coming—now going on—and he needed all the numbers, all the skilled fighters, he could find.

And Sirena?

She had always been a fighter, had always been too much her mother’s daughter to be anything else, and Duncan had seen that in her, in the blood on her white gown and the furious light in her golden eyes, had seen the resolve of doing what needed to be done when she stood alone before the guards, willing to take the whole blame without a second thought.

The Right may have saved her life, but it didn’t give her an easier one.

The moment she had sipped from the chalice and didn’t drop dead meant she would be fighting until her mind started to fight against her if she didn’t end up dead by a darkspawn’s blade before then.

And she was alright with that, her family was as safe as they could be in Denerim, she had made sure to take the whole blame for the massacre, and she was alive and able to fight to keep that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we starting to get into the heart of Dragon Age timeline, it only took twenty-four chapters.....sorry about that! Still, I hope you enjoy this chapter.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

_“Now the battle awaits us. Na via lerno Victoria. ‘Only the living know victory.’ Fight well.”_ –Fenris, Companion of the Champion of Kirkwall, the Blue Wraith.

* * *

_The count-down has begun, the end of childhood innocence and safety was dawning._

_10_

* * *

~ Giles’ Office, Lowever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Giles knew about the Grey Wardens arrival before they hit the Market.

 _“They are the herald of what’s coming, Giles,”_ Kenna’s voice echoed in the back of his mind as he spread out everything the Birds in Amaranthine was able to report across his desk.

Because he knew, he finally knew who was going to betray the Couslands, who was going to kill his Boss’ parents, because Arl Howe was arriving that day with either his forces or word about them.

Howe was the only one that could move such a force towards Highever without any of the Birds raising an eyebrow in interest because he was expected, he was too be welcomed as a friend, because he was meant to be riding with Highever’s forces to Ostagar.

“Fuck, fuck,” Giles cursed as he scanned short messages about letters being sent to the nobles sworn to the Arl, of closed-door meetings, all with new and perhaps more jaded eyes.

He had brushed it off, wrote it off as the Arl preparing for the Blight and the King’s call to arms, because that was what he was meant to be doing.

He had been wrong.

“Benji! You little brat! I need you!” he shouted as he slapped down the map of Highever, trying to predict how Howe would get his forces in if he tried to pass them off as delayed so he wouldn’t have to march off with Fergus—who was hoping to march out shortly after noon, and the Teyrn wouldn’t delay him, would want to get his forces to Ostagar as fast as possible, to fulfil his duty to the crown.

Not the Eastern Gate, they would expect his forces to use that gate, maybe the Southern? But that usually had more traffic going in, which could be a bonus—it would let them blend in, wouldn’t it?

Maybe the Western Gate? Closer to the Castle, but more well-guarded for that reason, and it was a smaller gate.

“Giles?” Benji stopped in the door, eyes glancing from the cot tucked up against the wall with the blankets half-kicked off, to the mess of papers sprawled all over his desk, to Giles hunched over said desk wearing only trousers that were still untied and a loose sleeping tunic.

“Code Grey,” Giles informed him grimly without looking up, his lips twisted in a snarl—how did he miss this? “Get the word out, I want people ready to move down here immediately after dinner, understand?”

Benji’s eyes hardened, hand twitching towards where he tucked one of his daggers before he stilled himself and smiled, sharp and cold.

“I’ll get right on that, Bossman,” Benji told him before he left with a swirl of dark curls and a flare of his dark jacket.

“And someone get me the fucking twins!” Giles shouted out after him, pale blue eyes hard as he began to plan.

He needed numbers, he needed something more iron-clad.

 _“He won’t believe us, he won’t believe me,”_ Kenna’s hitching voice echoed in his mind, _“and they will kill him because of it.”_

“Fuck,” Giles punched at his desk, knuckles protesting and red.

* * *

_9_

* * *

~ Fergus’ Room, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

“I’ll miss you, my love,” Oriana confessed into his neck, holding him as tightly as she could, uncaring of the armour he was still in the middle of donning.

“I’ll come back,” Fergus promised easily, because Kenna had said he would, and he trusted her, he believed her. “Just be here when I do.”

“Where would I go?” she asked, a light laugh as she looked up at him with bright dark coloured eyes. “When I know you will come back for me?”

Fergus kissed her, one hand tangling with her dark auburn braids.

 _“I can’t see her future,”_ Kenna confessed once.

And Fergus had shrugged off the unease of that confession—the fear, the frustration, had been clear in her mismatched eyes, he hadn’t wanted to make it worst—but it had suddenly took hold of him again, the sudden fear the gripped him as he kissed his wife harder, deeper, trying to imprint her deep in his memory like this was the last time he’d ever hold her, would ever smell the citrus of her perfume, the taste of her lips, tell her how much he loved her.

“I love you,” he told her with his lips hovering over hers, brushing against hers with each word of his declaration of love.

He wasn’t the one that knew the future, he was just being silly, foolish—she would be fine, she had to be fine.

“I love you too,” she told him easily, loving, before she pulled out of his arms, smiling that sweet smile she always gave him.

“Let’s finish getting you ready, si?” she asked as she stepped back.

And Fergus nodded, pushing his fear and nerves to the back of his mind.

* * *

_8_

* * *

~ Courtyard, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

“Duncan!” Bryce called out warmly, his face surprised as he watched the four Grey Wardens—or at least two Wardens and their two recruits—get off the two horses. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until I got to Ostagar.”

“I wanted to get one more recruitment trip in while I still could,” Duncan told him, a hint of a smile curling his lips as the robed mage behind him took wobbly steps under the amused amber cat-like eyes of the elven Warden—it was obvious to Bryce’s eyes that the mage was still getting the hang of riding a horse. “We believe the next battle will be the hardest.”

“And you decided to come all the way to Highever to recruit someone?” Bryce questioned curiously. “That person must impressed you greatly.”

“There a certainly a lot of rumours,” Duncan agreed calmly, noncommittal to Bryce’s unspoken question. “I hope you don’t mind putting us up? Arian isn’t in the best health at the moment,” he glanced over his shoulder to where the Dalish recruit was resting his head against the neck of the mare he had rode in on with the elven Warden.

“Of course not, Duncan,” Bryce waved over one of the servants, “you know the Grey Wardens can always find shelter under my roof—though I hope you won’t mind meeting me in the main hall? Arl Howe is supposed to arrive with his forces at any moment, and I think we’d both appreciate more recent news about what’s happening at Ostagar.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Duncan bowed his head slightly before glancing towards the mage, “I hope you don’t mind if I bring Ciarron with me? Arian needs his rest, and Sirena doesn’t have much patience for nobles, I’m afraid.”

Bryce glanced at the red-head elf, she offered him a fanged grin as she played crutch for the Dalish as the stable-hand took the horse to the stables.

The look she wore spoke volumes to Bryce.

“It’s probably best not to introduce her to Rendon before its truly necessary,” Bryce agreed making Duncan smile with some amusement.

* * *

_7_

* * *

~ Ravencrest, Highever Harbour, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

“Are you brooding again?” Art asked as he leaned next to him near the bow of his ship.

“Perhaps,” Bran allowed his lips twitch up in a smile, amused by the amount of resigned affection Art could pack into his words.

“At least tell me it’s not because of a certain golden King again,” Art groaned, an undertone of worry clear to Bran’s ear—his cousin hadn’t been pleased by Bran’s relationship with Cailan, had informed him it would end badly when he first found out, but didn’t say another word against it, didn’t even say ‘I told you so’ when Bran left Denerim a week after Cailan was crowned and the date was set for his marriage to Lady Anora.

“No,” Bran shook his head as he leaned more on his forearms and gazed down at the bustle of the harbour, idly wondering when he would next see it— _“you’ll give up the sea for us,”_ Kenna had told him, eyes boring into his.. “You remember the plan?”

“You mean the plan based on the unlikely event that the bells will ring because of an attack?” Art questioned, still as doubtful as he was when Bran first laid out his plan several months ago. “Yes, but I really don’t understand. Do you really think someone is going to attack? Now? When there is a Blight meant to be going on?”

Bran paused, letting Art see him consider it.

He thought of Kenna, of her eyes looking older then her face, the weight to her words, the completely and unshakeable certainty in her tone.

He thought of day after day of watching her train, of hands blistering and bleeding, of hands that still seemed so small being so rough from sword callouses.

He thought about muffled cries in the middle of the night, of a Shadow slipping through her bedroom door, of white braids pulled back roughly as large grey hands paged through dozens of books, of bruises under dual coloured eyes, of the protective steadiness in pale green eyes, of sun-kissed hair pushed back in a wild mess as the spymaster stalked through the halls.

“Yes,” he almost breathed out that damning word filled with horrible conviction, “yes, I do.”

Art was silent, his stormy eyes watchful as he scanned Bran’s face, before nodding shortly.

“We’ll be ready,” Art promised as he clapped his shoulder. “Though you should going, won’t Arl Howe be here soon?”

“Don’t remind me,” Bran grimaced, still remembering all the times the Arl had attempted to convince him of his daughter’s value as his future wife.

Briefly his mind turned to his sister’s other words; of sky-blue eyes and hands bloodied because of compassion, of a man he was meant to love like he had loved Cailan, perhaps even more.

He would never have a wife despite what the Arl thought.

* * *

_6_

* * *

~ Main Hall, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Caitlyn adjusted her skirt as she stood beside her father as they awaited Arl Howe to enter the hall, hopefully with the news that his army was ready to set off to Ostagar and not delayed—again.

Rosina stood just behind her and to the side, alone as Davia didn’t do social things if she could help it, and Alouette had already departed for Denerim—Cait still wasn’t sure it that was a good thing or not, that Kenna had insisted so much that Alouette was needed in Denerim, and away from Cait’s side for the first time since she had come into her employment.

She almost felt unbalanced without Alouette behind her with her sharp dark eyes and practised smile, and she honestly didn’t know how Kenna would cope without either Asaaranda or Giles by her side when they left—at least she would still have Lileas and Shadow, Caitlyn supposed, and then almost cringed at the thought because Lileas and Shadow just took in stride whatever Kenna did and wouldn’t think twice about following her as she did something stupid.

Cait clasped her hands in front of her, allowing her to discreetly rub the hand of her ring to calm herself—it had been a method she had become accustomed to using since the Blight had been announced, and a steady pulse of panic and terror began to haunt her daily life as the day that Fergus was leaving came ever closer.

Time was running out, Caitlyn was well aware of that, and she knew the ‘end’ was coming closer.

Fergus was leaving today, marching off to war against monsters, and without him there, present and reassuringly there, well, they were well aware of what was going to happen with Fergus gone—even if they wished not to know, even if Cait sometimes wondered if it would have been better to live with ignorance.

(Truthfully, Caitlyn would have never chosen to remained ignorant.

Ignorance had never been a choice when it came to Cait, she always wanted to know, wanted to learn the answer, was never content with what she already knew. It was what made her the apple of Aldous’ eye, because at the heart of her and despite all her scheming, she was a scholar.

And ignorance wouldn’t have saved them, it would have just made things worse and she knew that.

It would have made things cut deeper, Caitlyn had had twelve years to prepare herself for what she was coming, and there was still days she didn’t think she was truly prepared.)

“Rendon!” Father called out with an almost joyous smile, and Caitlyn quickly donned her own smile—pretty, practised, and hiding all signs of distain for the man that sired one of her dearest friend and hit her when she refused to make herself miserably by bowing down to his own ambitions and desires.

“Arl Howe,” Caitlyn bowed her head in a greeting, lifting her skirt as she bent her knees slightly in the shortest curtesy she could give while remaining polite. “Welcome back to Highever.”

* * *

_5_

* * *

~ Kitchen, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Nan leaned against one of the wooden tables covered with things for lunch and dinner, her arms crossed over her chest as she listened to the clamour of her fellow servants.

“You can’t be serious—”

“I have lunch to get on the table and then dinner—”

“We have duties—”

“Guests—”

“Why should we—”

She met Ser Kenneth’s equally unimpressed gaze across the kitchen for a moment before she stepped forward.

“Enough!” she finally snapped, her voice raising above the clamour and silencing the lot of them before she pinned the boy in front of her with dark eyes.

Benji blinked back calmly, all dark curls and sea eyes, a spine of steel and diamond hard loyalty that was a trademark of the Little Birds that the Brat and Lady Kenna had gathered around them.

“Is the Brat asking or telling?” she finally asked when she was convinced that the others would hold their tongues—for now at least.

“Telling, very much telling,” Benji informed her with a rather cheerful chirp to his tone.

There was some unhappy grumbling at _that_.

“And if I asked Lady Kenna about this sudden order?” Nan asked after silencing the lot with a hard glare.

“She would definitely be ordering,” Benji decided after a moment making Nan nod thoughtfully as she shared a glance with Ser Kenneth.

“You can’t be seriously considering this, Nan,” Aldous said with disbelief.

“Lady Kenna is trouble,” Nan said with pursed lips, “I would never say otherwise, but she wouldn’t ask this of us if it wasn’t serious.”

“But she’s not asking,” someone piped up.

“But Giles is,” Ser Kenneth shifted on one of the barrels that he was using as a chair, his voice rumbling out, “and that is basically the same thing.”

“Do we have enough food?” Nan ignored the others as she stared at Benji, focusing more on the important things then their inconvenient feelings.

“Lady Caitlyn has made sure we have enough to last us almost two years without severe rationing,” Benji informed her making Aldous start in surprise.

“Lady Caitlyn is involved in this?” the sage asked, with the surprise clear in his tone and a more considering light to his eyes.

“Lady Caitlyn is very aware of what goes on in Lowever,” Benji said agreeably making Nan bit back a smirk—clever brat, just like most of the Birds in Nan’s experience.

There was mutterings, considering now that Lady Caitlyn’s name was added to this order.

“Right, you lot,” Nan called out sternly as she moved to stand beside the clever little brat and let her stare down the gathering servants—fellow servants she had put the fear of the Maker in several times over the years she had worked with them.

“The Castle has guests—Howe, Grey Wardens and the Teyrna’s friends—and we have our duties, which we will complete,” she reassured them, commanded them, “however, we are going to have to be ready to move down to Lowever after dinner, which means we have to careful, keep up with our duties, and only ready things that are necessary—we don’t have to worry about food, which is good for us and save us time.”

She paused to survey the lot, from the lowest servant to the cooks, from Aldous and Jonas to Ser Kenneth.

“Those with light duties, you lot will be focused of getting everything of importance—things that can’t be replaced, things that can’t fall into enemy hands, priceless bits of history—down in Lowever—and that means only some of your books, Jonas.

Someone get a Sleeping Draught from Lady Caitlyn’s workroom, we’ll need that to stop the children causing a fuss—that Lady Landra could probably do with some,” she paused for a moment, “and probably one for the hounds—Lady Kenna would pout horribly if something happened to the mutts if we just left them in the kennels.”

There was a long moment of silence as some of the servants fidgeted and muttered amongst themselves.

“What are you lot standing around?” Nan glared heavily with her hands on her hips, “you have your orders, now get to it!”

There was a lot of movement then as they did as Nan had ordered.

“This has something to do with her dreams, doesn’t?” Nan asked Benji in an undertone making him blink up at her, all falsely innocent.

“I couldn’t say,” he demurred, looking up through his dark lashes.

No, he probably couldn’t, Nan figured.

She doubted anyone outside that core group Kenna had built around her knew for sure, but she was also certain that Benji had put the pieces together—like Nan had, like Ser Kenneth had—because he was a clever little brat, because he like the others—all the Little Birds that swore themselves to Kenna and wore her symbol somewhere on their body—had taken to the lessons he had been given and ran with them.

“You probably should round up some of the stronger Birds,” she informed him, “Jonas will try his best to save as many damn books he can.”

Benji inclined his head in agreement before he slid out the door on quiet feet, leaving Nan to keep a stern eye on everyone.

* * *

_4_

* * *

~ The Market, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Souren walked with unsteady steps, her quarter-staff in her right hand and tapping at the ground and tripped into the chest of a passing man with a ‘surprised’ yelp, feeling the armour he had hidden under his cloak as she ‘tried’ to scramble up.

“What the—”

“I am so sorry,” she twisted, staring blankly up towards his face making him cut off his words with a curse. “I didn’t mean too, I’m so sorry—"

“Souren!” Itha called out as she rushed forward, reaching out for Souren’s arm as she turned to the man with an apologetic look on her face, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” the man—the soldier, the enemy—informed her gruffly.

“I looked away for one moment,” Itha continued rapidly with an apologetic tone.

“Really, it’s fine,” he insisted as he glanced around at the attention they were gathering, adjusting his cloak quickly so it was once again covering his chest-plate, “didn’t even hurt.”

“I’m still getting the hang of using a cane,” Souren added mournfully as she twisted the staff in her hand.

They continued on with the act as the soldier became more uncomfortable and other men began to cast him unhappy look for drawing attention.

Neither the soldier caught up with the twins’ plan nor his fellows were aware of the eyes watching them sharply, picking out his allies while a young elf had already dashed down to Lowever after catching the crest of Amaranthine on the soldier’s chest-plate—Giles would needed to informed after all.

* * *

_3_

* * *

~ Guest Quarters, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

“Duncan should have sent you off to Ostagar ahead of us,” Sirena mused as she carefully sharpened her blades near the cracked open door, hearing more attuned to what was happening outside the room than to the pained breathing of the Dalish on one of the beds. “You look like you’ll die before we even leave this place.”

“Your concern for me is overwhelming,” Arian grunted as he untied the leather braces around his wrists with shaky fingers, grimacing at the darkening of his veins that were spreading further up his arms.

“I’m just telling it like I see it,” Sirena shrugged idly, ear twitching as she heard rapid steps in the hallway and a door being opened almost forcibly nearby, “I don’t want your dead weight suddenly collapsing on me when we leave.”

 _“Jonas wants more trunks,”_ a soft voice whispered just in the range of Sirena’s hearing and the rhythm of her whetstone against her blade slowed.

 _“He can’t take the whole library!”_ another voice exclaimed making the first voice shush them sharply. _“What part of discreet doesn’t he understand?”_

 _“You know what he’s like when it comes to his books,”_ the first voice sighed, _“just help me with this trunk.”_

“Shall I try to fall off the horse while dying?” Arian asked dryly making her flash him a somewhat distracted grin.

“If you would be so kind,” she informed him making he give her a look.

She just flashed him another grin before she returned most of her attention back to her whetstone, the grin dropping when she no longer felt his dark eyes on her.

 _Something was rotten in Highever,_ she mused to herself.

And the Wardens had walked right into it without a clue.

 _Well, let’s hope I don’t have to cause another massacre_ , Sirena thought as she tried the razor-sharp edge of her dagger with her finger, smiling at the ruby red droplet of blood welling up.

Even if it did end up in a bloodbath, she had already proven she could handle herself and survive against the odds.

She glanced up through her dark red fringe, taking in the milky-tea like pallor of Arian’s skin, the sheen of sweat on his brow, the deeper pained breathing because of the poison burning through his veins, the spreading and darkening veins of his wrists, all things that spoke of liability, things that made part of her—the part of her that survived in the Alienage, survived the massacre, survived thieving from the wealthy humans—want to leave him to his fate when the shitstorm hit.

But she also took in the ease, the confidence, in his movements with the sword he wore, the sped he had fired arrows during their travel here.

He was ill, yes, he was dying slowly, but he was more skilled than Soris had ever been, had actual armour, and the rush of battle can make the body forget many things like dying.

He would be useful, he knew how to fight, and as long as he could keep up with her, he would survive—hopefully long enough to go through the Joining, perhaps even survive it.

* * *

_2_

* * *

~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Kenna was doing her best to avoid the Main Hall where she knew that Arl Howe was.

(Honestly, Kenna hadn’t met a noble that she disliked more, and she knew Hebren Bryland—the most spoiled insufferable little brat this side of the Waking Sea.)

She may have felt a bit guilty for leaving Cait to deal with him, but really, it was for the best that she avoided him for as long as possible—he completely blamed Thomas’ refusal to think about marrying Caitlyn and his threats of eloping with her solely on her, like it was somehow her fault that his son didn’t want to marry Caitlyn or any of the other pretty noble daughters Arl tried to nudge him towards.

(Kenna still didn’t know what to think about the fact that Thomas had given her the best proposal she had ever received and had decided to ignore it all for as long as possible.)

But of course, someone had to decide to step in and send her towards the man she was avoiding, and of course it was her Mother surrounded by Lady Landra, her son and her handmaiden.

Probably because Mother wanted to introduce Caitlyn to Darrien, hoping to nudge them towards marriage, again, despite Kenna informing every hopeful suitor that came crawling that Cait wasn’t going to marry him, that she was going to marry someone that treated like a Queen—was going to make her a Queen—and that wasn’t him.

Mother had scowled at Kenna when she had opened her mouth to deliver her normal speech towards Darrien about how he would never win the hand of Caitlyn, that he wasn’t good enough for her, that he wasn’t the one, and to give up now before he made a fool out of himself, and she grudgingly closed her mouth and walked to the Main Hall with Lileas at her side and Shadow at her back.

* * *

_1_

* * *

~ Main Hall, Castle Cousland, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

The doors of either side of the Hall opened instead of just one, making Cait look behind her in surprise as her younger sister stepped in flanked by Lileas and followed by Shadow with a hint of a pouty scowl on her face.

“Cait,” she called, completely blanking the people entering the room as she focused on her sister, “Mother wants you—”

Kenna stopped in her tracks, eyes widening and focusing over Caitlyn’s shoulder as she paled.

“You…” Kenna trailed off, horror and shock mingling together, and Cait turned, eyes widening as she stared at the sky-blue eyed mage next to the Warden Commander.

“Grey Wardens, here!” Arl Howe spoke up, voice higher in shock and something flashed across his face as he stared at them, “I wasn’t prepared for this….honour. You should have told me, Bryce.”

“They arrived just before you, Rendon,” Bryce chuckled, ignorant to the horror and shock on each of his daughters’ face as they stared at the mage recruit.

Caitlyn locked her knees as her ears began to ring as she stared numbly at the mage, at the Grey Warden beside him, as she took deep breathes to stop herself from being sick.

“Spitfire? What did your mother want?” Bryce’s voice broke through the fog, allowed Caitlyn to think.

“She wants to introduce Cait to Darrien,” Kenna spoke woodenly, gaze dragging away from the mage slowly as Cait’s blue gaze darted to Arl Howe, to her father’s friend, with horror-struck realisation.

He wasn’t here to help them, wasn’t here to march beside her father and brother to war, he was here to betray and kill them.

“Father?” Caitlyn’s voice sounded strange to her own ears, “can we speak before dinner?”

She could feel her father’s concerned and sharp gaze on the side of her face.

“After Fergus has left,” he promised, and Caitlyn nodded, feeling sick, “you should go, this meeting doesn’t involve you, and—Cait? You look a bit unwell, perhaps you should lay down.”

“Perhaps, I will,” Caitlyn nodded as she turned towards her sister, seeing the dawning realisation in her dual coloured eyes that darted in rage towards Howe, of her hands reaching for a blade she luckily wasn’t wearing before Lileas’ hand clamped down on her wrist with a slightly panicked look, “come, Kenna.”

“But—”

“Now,” Cait put more force in her tone as she hurried with Rosina towards her sister.

* * *

_Betrayal and War had entered through their doors._


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

_“Some lands are ruled by men and women who believe that they have been elevated to their rank by the Maker Himself, but in Ferelden, rules must earn their place._

_The nobility is not suffered gladly, as the Orlesian Empire discovered to its dismay when it attempted to occupy the land._

_The Couslands have stewarded the lands of Highever for many generations, dating even to before Ferelden’s first king was crowned._

_They have preserved so long because of their reputation for justice and temperance, as well as their willingness to lead men into battle._

_With the rise of the darkspawn horde in the south, it thus falls on the Teyrn of Highever to send out the call once again: duty demands that an army be sent to King Cailan’s aid at once._

_As the Couslands will quickly discover, however, the evil horde to the south is not the only darkness in Ferelden: treachery stalks the halls of Castle Cousland as well._

_As a young scion of the Cousland family, the duty to carrying its banner will fall to you._

_Will you live up to your family’s proud heritage?_

_Or will you forge your own path and damn the consequences?”_

* * *

There was a strange ringing in Kenna’s ears, the world around her seemed dim and muted as she stared at Howe, at her father’s friend, at her friend’s father, at her family’s betrayer.

Her heartbeat seemed louder, fierce and loud like a war-drum—is this what they meant when they said someone had war in their heart?

She had left her swords in her room, she remembered, and only had two daggers tucked into her boots—she wouldn’t be able to retrieve them without notice, without anyone seeing, Father would stop her, would protect his murderer, but she had to kill him, kill him now.

Cool slender fingers wrapped around her fevered wrist—Lileas—and a line of warmth against her back—Shadow.

“—Come, Kenna,” Caitlyn’s voice, wavering slightly, but still stern broke through to her, and her gaze dragged to her sister, to Cait.

“But—”

“Now,” Cait said forcefully, her painted lips pinched and her face still pale from her own shocked horror.

Lileas tugged and Kenna felt Shadow leave to hold open the door as Cait’s pace was hurried towards her with Rosina at her flank.

She didn’t want to leave, she wanted to grab one of her daggers and bury it in Howe’s chest, over and over again, she wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers.

But she had conditioned herself to Cait’s voice, to her directions, since she was four-years-old and kept waking up by screaming as she saw her father gutted—and it was his fault, it was all his fault—and only Cait or Fergus could sooth her, only they knew the truth, only they did all they could to help her.

Stiff with rage, with barely retrained violence, she allowed Lileas to tug her away, Caitlyn coming to her free side and wrapping an arm around her waist, hurrying her out before she did something that she wouldn’t regret.

The door shut behind them, the sound a death toll in her mind.

“Cait—”

“I know,” Caitlyn replied tightly.

“We can’t—”

“We have to,” Cait told her.

“But—”

“No, not now,” Caitlyn shook her head, golden braids swaying with the movement. “We will talk to Father, get whatever evidence that Giles had gathered.”

“He won’t believe us,” Kenna told her, hands clenching into fists over and over, “he never does and now we know why,” she gave a hollow laugh that made Cait flinch as she hurried them along, “because he’s meant to be Father’s friend.”

Caitlyn’s lips thinned, her golden brows furrowed together, and she said nothing because Kenna spoke the truth.

Rendon Howe was Father’s friend, a brother almost, and he would also be his murderer and Father wouldn’t believe them until he was bleeding out and having to hold his guts in on the floor of the pantry.

“Rosina? Could you go to Davia and have her discreetly set up some of her traps?” Caitlyn asked after a moment, her voice hushed as they were coming to the turn towards where Mother was probably still waiting.

“Of course, my Lady,” a slight bob of a strawberry blonde head before Rosina left in a swirl of her skirt.

“Lileas? Could you get Giles and all the evidence he has?” Caitlyn continued after a moment, hesitating at the turn.

Lileas’ hand squeezed her wrist once before she let go.

“Of course, Lady Caitlyn,” Lileas replied as she shared a glance with Shadow before leaving as Shadow’s warmth came ever closer to her back.

“Cait—”

“We can’t, you can’t, do you understand that?” Caitlyn asked, demanded. “It would make things worse.”

Her elder sister sounded certain, so very certain, and Kenna hated it, hated that she was right.

Because she could see it, unfolding in her mind.

Of her deciding to break away from Cait, pulling a dagger from her boot and charging back to the Hall with Shadow at her back.

Of throwing open the doors and heading straight for Howe.

Sometimes Kenna surprised them all, was able to bury her dagger into Howe’s chest and twist before she’s pulled back.

Other times, she was caught before she can, Father grabbing her as he shouted, the mage-recruit freezing her in place, the Warden Commander blocking her strike.

Shadow—loyal, brave Shadow—would do his best to see her will be done, to see Howe dead, and he does, and he died for it.

And she won’t let that happen in reality, she steeled herself and nursed the fire and storm in her chest, in her heart, let it grow and tamed it, ready to be unleashed later, would let it feast on the blood and broken bodies of her enemies, her betrayers, and she let Caitlyn hold her, restrain her as she blinked, fighting back furious and useless tears that threatened to fall.

“Keep calm, okay?” Cait asked her, and Kenna grudgingly nodded.

“Thank you,” she pressed a kiss against Kenna’s temple before she straightened and fixed her smile before she turned with her arm still wrapped around Kenna’s waist, an anchoring point in the here and now, a calm to Kenna’s storm, Cait’s ice to Kenna’s fire.

“Caitlyn,” Mother called as they turned the corner, “you remember Lady Landra?”

“Of course,” Caitlyn smiled, pretty and practised, hiding all signs of grief, of rage, and looked completely welcoming in a way that Kenna couldn’t. “It is good to see you again, Lady Landra.”

Mother looked at her, at the way that Caitlyn kept one firm and comforting arm around her, a trace of worry appearing in her stormy gaze, but she said nothing—she never said anything, she hadn’t known what to say or do since Kenna shied away from her comfort and worry and turned to Cait and Fergus instead.

* * *

~ The Sirens’ Pearl, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Benji leaned back against the wall outside of the Pearl, dressed in silk the colour of the sea, pearls threaded through his dark hair and lips painted.

He looked up flirtatious under his lashes, sea eyes carefully outlined by kohl, and kept half of his attention on the enemy soldiers amongst the population.

“Do you realise how awkward this feels?” the words were hissed against his ear as the boarder body over him leaned ever closer, propping themselves up with forearm pressed above Benji’s head.

“Come now, Cousin,” Benji twisted his fingers in the loose tunic his older ‘cousin’ wore, “we have to make it look it real.”

Ronan Mac Sullivan looked very put-out as he reeled in his younger cousin, pressing them together.

“That’s better,” Benji flashed him a smile, one arm hooking around Ronan’s neck.

“I should have followed Alouette’s lead,” Ronan decided almost mournfully, ducking his head and making it look like he was nuzzling against Benji’s neck, “I should have sworn myself to Lady Caitlyn, but no, I thought it would be too boring, I thought I had to keep you out of trouble.”

Benji snorted, sea-eyes calculating as he counted each enemy soldier he could pick out and decided to pay his cousin back for his moaning, by hitching one long leg around his hip.

“You little shit!” Ronan hissed as his hand clasped his thigh to keep him in place and his fingers dug in, “Mother is never letting me forget this.”

Benji threw his head back with a laugh, the sound doctored to be mildly feminine and to draw the eye—which, Benji was mentally pleased to note, it did.

Ronan dug his teeth in the arch of his neck, a reprimand in the drag of his teeth.

“Ouch,” Benji complained mildly as he twisted his hand in his cousin’s dark hair and tugged in his own reprimand that only made Ronan dig his teeth in harder as he pressed them against the wall.

Benji mentally sighed, this is why the Madame had given up trying to make Ronan any type of Bard—he was such a terrible actor.

Benji tapped his middle finger against the blade of Ronan’s shoulder, the golden ring with the face bearing a songbird with a laurel clutched in its talons that he wore on his right middle finger flashing in the light.

Huddled in the mouth of a nearby alley, dark jacket pulled tight around them, another Little Bird nodded in understanding and tilted their face towards the shadow to mouth the number of enemies Benji had managed to pick out while doing his ‘play’.

Benji tilted his head further to one side as if he was giving Ronan more room and let his eyes go half-lidded as he met the gaze of any of the enemies that paid him close attention.

If Teyrn Cousland was still firm in sending of the bulk of his forces with Lord/Ser Fergus then they would be hopelessly outnumbered by the enemy that had waltzed in through their gates.

* * *

~ Main Courtyard, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

“Be here when I get back,” Fergus demanded as he near crushed Oriana against him, pressed his lips against her hair and breathed in her citrus perfume.

“Where else would I be?” she asked him lightly, her nails dragging at his scalp when she ran her fingers through his hair.

 _Dead_ , was the traitorous thought that popped into his mind, and he just held her closer as his gaze drifted towards Kenna.

She stood near the back, golden fingers wrapped tightly around Lileas’ slim and pale wrist and darker fingers wrapped her own wrist as Shadow pressed against her back.

She didn’t look at him, didn’t look at any of the soldiers mounting their horses or grabbing their bags, no, her burning gaze was directed at Howe.

He remembered just an hour ago, when she had almost stumbled into his room and just clung to him, he thought about the grim set of Caitlyn’s mouth and the rage-horror-realisation hitting him as he realised what was happening, what was coming.

He had wanted to take his board-sword—freshly sharpened and polished—and cut Howe in two, he wanted to take his head and spit on his corpse, and he knew that Kenna would have helped him, would have been beside him every step of the way, would have defended his back and he dealt with his family’s betrayer, but Oriana and Caitlyn were the voices of reason, of calm, of restraint.

(And he would howl about that later, would throw things and rage in his room in Lowever after cutting down the body of his wife—of his Oriana—down from the walls of their home.

He would howl his grief, his fury, and he would kill every fucker that squatted in his home like it was theirs.

He would be called the Saviour of Highever by its people, and the Wolf of Highever by everyone else afterwards.)

“Stay safe,” he pressed another kiss to Oriana’s auburn hair.

“I’ll be as safe as you are,” she promised, and he accepted that, didn’t even really think about it, and would cry and laugh about it later because she had already made her mind up and he hadn’t realised until it was far too late.

* * *

Oriana Cousland wasn’t a warrior, not like Kenna—who was her sister-in-law and step-daughter at the same time—but she wasn’t defenceless, her father would have never agreed to her joining him on his merchant-ships if she couldn’t defend herself.

Her claws were as sharp as Kenna’s, but hers were poisonous and that made her deadly in her own way.

Fergus would have wanted her to stay safe in Lowever with Oren, would have preferred her to stay protected until he could come and protect her himself.

But Oriana couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that.

Howe would be looking for her, for her and Oren, because Oren was a threat, was the heir of Highever and he wouldn’t allow her son to live, he would do all he could to hunt him down.

And if Oriana hid in Lowever with Oren, safe and protected, how many women and their young sons would be killed in their place?

If Oriana fought, if Howe’s men saw her fighting, then he would think Oren had gotten out alone, and Oren was just a child, not even ten years old, how long would he be expected to live on his own?

Not long, Howe would think, not long, alone and afraid, away from the safety of the castle and his family for the first time in his life.

He would write Oren off as dead, wouldn’t look for him so hard, would allow the forces in Lowever to have more freedom to pick off his men.

For Oren, for her home and people, Oriana would fight.

She would don the armour that her husband brought her, would dip her blades in the poison her mother taught her to make when she was a girl, and she would fight and perhaps die to protect them.

* * *

~ Guest Quarters, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Sirena was leaning against the wall outside of the room with her arms crossed over her chest and her weapons secured tightly when Duncan and Ciarron arrived back from making nice with Couslands.

“Arian seems to be getting worse,” Sirena informed the mage making him frown in concern as he brushed passed her and into the room, hand already flaring with magic.

“Is there something a matter, Sirena?” Duncan asked as he stopped before her, staring at her with calm dark eyes.

“Something is rotten in Highever,” Sirena informed him lowly making Duncan hum in some interest. “You’re not surprised.”

Duncan eyed her mildly, not fazed by her accusation.

“I suspected something,” he shrugged lightly, calm and indifferent, and maddening.

“Are we going to get involved or just defend ourselves?” she asked almost lightly.

Duncan seemed to think about it for a moment, probably calculating something in his mind, and Sirena had the thought that Alistair would be appalled to see this side of his precious Duncan.

“We will of course help the Couslands if we’re able,” Duncan decided, and Sirena’s brows arched without her meaning too.

Because helping the Couslands wasn’t the same thing as getting involved, and the added ‘if we’re able’ and change that to ‘if I think I can get my way’.

“I’ll stick close to the recruits then,” Sirena informed him as she pushed off from the wall and Duncan gave her a small smile.

“That would be very helpful, Sirena,” he informed her with a tone of mild approval.

Sirena ignored him and walked back into the room to see Ciarron sat next to Arian with his glowing hands pressed against his chest and side.

The Couslands weren’t her problem, Sirena reminded herself, but the recruits were, they were under her protection and she would like to get them—or at least Ciarron—to Ostagar still breathing.

Still, she had more understanding as why Duncan had only considered either Sirena or Durinn for this journey instead of choosing Alistair, who was his favourite.

Because Alistair saw Duncan as a saviour, as his saviour.

Because Alistair thought Duncan was a good man, a man with honour, and he loved him.

Because Duncan didn’t want Alistair to see this side of him, to see him indifferent and calculating, he didn’t want to crack the faith and belief Alistair had for Duncan and the Grey Wardens as a whole.

Neither Durinn or herself had the same innate belief, didn’t see a good man when looking at Duncan, and he knew it.

He knew he could be as ruthless, as calculating, as he needed to be to gain his chosen recruits and they wouldn’t care, wouldn’t see it as a betrayal like Alistair would.

Duncan wasn’t a good man, but then again neither was Durinn or Sirena—they were very aware of what type of people they were and just what type of man that Duncan was.

* * *

~ Lowever, 15th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Nan watched with approval as the two young squires curled themselves around the sleeping form of young Oren Cousland in one of the ‘single’ bedrooms and not the dorm-style rooms that the others—Nan included—would be staying in.

A couple of drops of Sleeping Draught in his nightly cup of warm milk and he was safely asleep, ignorant to what was going to happen above him.

Nan would have done the same with the two squires, but they had caught wind of what was happening—someone’s loose-lips was going to get them into trouble—and had refused any drink so they could be aware enough to do their duty and protect their future Teyrn.

Stubborn little brats, but loyal, and Nan could respect that.

“Nan,” Benji greeted, sea-eyes glancing into the room and softening just slightly, a truly massive red mark on his neck.

“Have fun today, then?” Nan asked with pursed lips and a slight nod to his neck.

“My cousin likes to play rough,” Benji shrugged with a smile, cheerful and falsely innocent that made her snort in some amusement.

“Don’t you have something to do?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes, he does,” Asaaranda Adaar scowled down at him as they strode down the corridor. “I need more hands for tonight, ready to bring down the injured.”

“Why aren’t you going to Giles with this?” Benji asked with a put-out sigh. “I’ve been running around all day, don’t I get a short rest before someone else collars me for something?”

“There is no rest for the wicked,” they informed the young man making Nan snort in amusement and agreement, before turning on their heel with the stern order of; “find me more people, now.”

“Yes, yes, Healer Adaar,” Benji sighed and followed the towering Qunari.

Nan watched them go, but stayed in the doorway of the room, someone had to look after the children and that someone would be Nan.

She shifted and crossed her arms loosely under her breasts, one hand drifting close to the sword she had belted to her waist—in the unlikely event that the enemy somehow breached Lowever, Nan would be ready for them.

She didn’t survive the Rebellion by keeping her head down after all.

* * *

~ Kenna’s Room, Cousland Castle, Highever, 15th/16th Justinian 9:31 Dragon ~

Lileas gave another glance over the room and gave a little nod of approval.

It looked ransacked, as if someone in panic went through it to gather things together to escape—hopefully Howe or whoever searched the room afterwards would think the same.

Anything truly important had been secreted down to Lowever, there were three backpacks hidden near the end of the tunnel through the pantry—the only secret tunnel that they were allowing Howe and his people to find—ready for them with bags for Lord Bran, Lady Caitlyn and Rosina.

Kenna shifted, the slightest creak of leather, and Lileas glanced over to her Lady, her friend.

Kenna stood ready with her swords held loosely in her hands, their sheaths strapped across her back, and dressed in armour—a studded leather cuirass over a chainmail vest and a thick midnight-blue tunic, thick moveable leather trousers tucked into sturdy leather boots—with hidden steel-toe caps—and a long leather midnight-blue jacket.

Shadow hovered by her side, his brows furrowed and a hint of a frown on his face, and all his weapons strapped in place with only his sword in hand.

“Any moment now,” Kenna told them in a low furious voice, and Lileas picked up her glaive and held it ready. “Stay close, okay?”

“Of course,” Lileas replied easily, the foci-crystal around her neck seemed to weigh more, a silent reminded that by the end of this her secret could be out in the open.

Shadow just squeezed her shoulder once, a silent agreement and encouragement, as they waited in tense silence.

Their breathing was consciously even, hands flexing so not to lock up, gaze focused on the closed door and ears straining for any sound.

Lileas thought the silence and the tension would make them snap before any of Howe’s men got to them when—

The Bells rang, the urgent sound travelling throughout the castle and would be echoed across Highever.

There was a furious scream and the door slammed open, the soldier barely had time to look shocked at their appearance when one of Shadow’s throwing-knives had buried itself into his throat.

He fell choking, hands uselessly coming up to press against the knife, and Kenna didn’t even give him a second glance as she threw herself forward at his friend.

One blade parried his shaken attack while the other buried into his stomach, parting the leather like it was simple cloth.

Lileas was a beat behind Kenna, her glaive skewering a startled archer.

It had began.

* * *

Across Highever, the ringing of the Bells were picked up, the sound getting louder and more urgent.

For the first time since the Alienage had been completed, the gates were closed and barred.

Elven eyes glowed in the torch-light from on top of the wall and through arrow-slits in the wall as they stood ready.

The shop ‘Wonder by the Sea’ briefly glowed as wards were powered.

House Cadash’s compound was closed, traps primed and ready, and the forces that hadn’t marched to Ostagar was ready, armoured and armed for anyone foolish enough to attack their compound, the heart of House Cadash.

Arthyen Trevelyan on the deck of the Ravencrest cursed with great feeling before he turned to the crew—his crew now, he realised.

“Set sail to the Storm Coast!” he ordered, his voice thundering to be heard over the bells. “The Bann will want to know his family has been betrayed.”

“Aye, Captain,” came the chorus of grim replies as Art turned to look back to the castle just in time to see part of it erupt into flames.

“Fuck, Bran,” Art hit his fist against the railing, “fuck, you better survive this shit.”

In the Sirens’ Pearl, Madame Mac Sullivan pursed her painted lips as the Bells rang.

“You know your duties,” she informed the group of men and woman draped around the room in various positions, all silent and grim faced. “We’ll make them sing all their secrets before we drown them.”

Smirks curled lips, hooded eyes gleamed, and glasses were raised to the mural.

“We’ll make sure they understand why we are called Sirens,” she continued as she raised her own glass of blood-red wine.

Down in Lowever, Dairren paused in his pacing, his back straightening as the Bells echoed down to them.

He shared a glance with Iona, and the elven hand-maiden looked grim as she brushed back the hair of her unconscious Lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: 
> 
> Hey, hope you like this chapter, and I love the feedback I'm getting from you guys! Sorry it's taking me a while to crank out this chapters, I've recently fallen down the rabbit hole that it Teen Wolf Sterek stories, and it's hard to pull myself away. 
> 
> Serious, I haven't even watched more then the first episode and I'm already obsessed. 
> 
> But that's not important, what's important is that the action is starting, the story is truly starting! Sorry it's taken me around twenty-six chapters to get to it, and I'll try to be better if I make this into a series--something I'm still thinking about and would like your thoughts. 
> 
> What else? Oh, yeah, I'd say sorry about the cliff-hanger, but that wouldn't be true. Haha, yes, I'm feeling evil and talkative, sorry about that at least.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

_“Garahel always used to say that heroism was just another word for horror, and maybe a worse one._

_A hero always feels that he has to do what’s right._

_Sometimes that leads to tormenting himself with doubt long after the deed is done….or herself…”_ –Amadis Vael, Princess-Captain of the Ruby Drakes, Lover of the Grey Warden Garahel, alive during the Fourth Blight.

* * *

Battle was chaotic.

It was furious battle-cries, and the clash of steel.

It was the punched-out sound of the dying, and cries of pain.

It was blood, and instinct, and death.

There was no distance, no time to stop and collect oneself, to think and plan.

And it reminded Caitlyn exactly why she had picked the bow out of all the weapons available to her, and that was because she liked the distance, the ability to think and calculate, to plan, and to simply breathe.

Close-combat was instinct and reflex, something that Cait wasn’t suited too.

She was pinned in by the walls, by the press of enemies that had made it this far in, by the others around her.

She didn’t have the space needed to retreat, to breathe, to pick off her targets one by one.

Rosina was good at making sure Caitlyn had some space, that her ability to fight wasn’t completely hindered, but she couldn’t be everywhere, and Caitlyn still wasn’t the best with the blades on her bow—especially designed by Davia.

It wasn’t a surprise that Cait left herself open, that she hadn’t been able to defend herself fully from an enemy that was trained for close-combat, but it still shocked her, startled her.

His blade coming towards her face, her bow trying to block or parry, her face burning as it was split apart from cheek-bone across her mouth to her chin, hot blood—her blood—slipping down her neck, and she flinched away.

Kenna was there, lips curled up in a snarl that showed blood-stained teeth, a bruise already darkening on her cheek, and one of her swords pierced the man’s out-stretched arm, he cried out as he dropped the blade—Cait skipping back, eyes wide and breathing shaky, as she twisted and fired at the enemy coming at her back, getting him in the throat, a killing blow—before Kenna’s second blade slashed across his throat.

There was no time to stop, to assess the damage done to her face, to seal the wound with her pastes, not yet, not when there was still enemies alive.

Kenna pulled her sword free and herded herself back, pressing her back against Cait’s just as Lileas and Shadow weaved closer, ready to flank, and Rosina retreated back to Cait’s side—strawberry-blonde hair braided and pinned back, daggers dripping with blood and a spray of crimson across her armour.

Bran was further away, keeping close to where Oriana was dodging and ducking with all the grace of a dancer and lashing out with thin cuts from her poisoned daggers, as he fought with a sword and a dagger—the family sword (freshly cleaned and sharpened after Caitlyn took it from the Vault earlier—a Vault that would be emptier than Howe was no doubt expecting) tied and sheathed across his back for now, he would give it over to Kenna before he underwent the Joining to become a Grey Warden.

Mother, furious and white-lipped, had planted herself in the doorway of her bedroom with her bow in hand and Father nowhere to be seen.

Almost as soon as it started, it was over, the soldiers were dead and they were given a brief moment to breathe, to assess, as the Bells kept ringing and whatever forces had been left behind under Ser Kenneth’s command mounted their defences somewhere.

“Oriana, where’s Oren?” Mother called out as she stalked closer, green-eyes narrowed and furious.

“Safe,” Oriana informed her as she peered at her blades while Rosina swiftly sheathed her own and began to spread the blood-clotting paste across Cait’s wound.

“It looks like it’ll scar, my Lady,” Rosina informed her softly making Caitlyn nod with acknowledgement, not yet risking saying something.

Her lips had been split open, the scarring would change the shape of her mouth somewhat depending how deep the blade had truly cut.

Speaking now without giving the paste time to work could make it worse, and really, for once, Caitlyn didn’t know what to say.

“We need to find Bryce,” Mother declared as she glanced over her children, an expression of guilt briefly twisting her features—she hadn’t believed them neither and Caitlyn knew that would haunt her mother.

“He’s in the pantry,” Kenna told Mother without looking up from wiping off the excess blood from her swords—furious and grieving, her words almost bitten off with the force of her emotions, her jaw clenched to not spit out words that she would regret. “He’ll be in a bad way.”

Mother pursed her mouth but didn’t question her youngest.

“Stay close,” Mother told them, “and keep each other safe.”

* * *

Kenna let out a strangled sound almost as soon as they stepped out of the family quarters and she rushed forward, swords gripped tightly in her hand with Shadow close, but not dogging her heels.

She ignored the dying and dead forms of Howe’s men, her gaze focused solely on the man that had defeated them, had given his life to defend theirs, hers.

“Ser Kenneth,” she knelt, blood-staining the knees of her trousers, and she hovered uncertain, not releasing her swords because she knew, _she knew_ , it was too late, and a heavy hand—warm, as familiar as her own—landed on her shoulder, Shadow squeezed it in silent comfort.

He was propped up against the wall, covered in blood and his eyes still open.

Blood had seeped from his mouth, frozen in bittersweet grin of victory.

“Please…” the word was gasped wetly from behind her, and she moved, twisting from under Shadow’s hand, before she thought about it, before the impulse could transition into thought.

Her sword buried itself in the enemy soldier’s chest, his body jerking just once as his eyes dimmed and he was gone, dead, dead like Ser Kenneth.

It hadn’t been an act of mercy, it hadn’t been a kindness, and it wasn’t to lessen his suffering.

No, Kenna had been furious grief, had been enraged and seething with hatred that he had dared to beg, beg for mercy or help, when he was one of the reasons that Ser Kenneth—her mentor, her teacher—was dead.

It had been a cruel action.

Perhaps she should feel bad, should feel regret and guilt, and perhaps she will later, when they have escaped the smoke-choked remains of her childhood, when they have put enough distance between them and the men that wish to kill them.

Perhaps then she will be overcome with guilt, with regret. Perhaps she be sick, sickened by her actions and the blood on her hands, perhaps she will cry, cry for the lives lost and the lives she has taken.

But that is worries for future-Kenna, because at the moment, in the present?

Kenna couldn’t feel anything apart from twelve-years-worth of grief, rage and spite, those burning emotions that boiled down to questions, to demands, of ‘how could he?’ and ‘how dare they?’.

She pressed a kiss on the bristly cheek of Ser Kenneth, a kiss of farewell, a kiss of thanks, a kiss that said she would remember him.

She turned to the soldier with her sword shoved in his chest, piercing his heart, and braced one foot on his still body as she levered her sword out of the corpse, and looked up with hard and wet eyes.

Caitlyn was looking back at her, her own blood drying on her face and throat, the deep red of paste thickly applied to her wound, bright and deep Cousland blue eyes creased in worry and shadowed by her own grief and anger, one hand bundled into a fist at her side as if she was restraining herself from reaching out, reaching out and gathering Kenna close like she was just a little girl needing her comfort.

“Be at the Maker’s side and at peace, Ser Kenneth,” Mother intoned, a hitch to her voice, and Kenna looked away from her sister before she did dive into Cait’s comforting arms like a little girl.

The luxury of childhood was gone now, she couldn’t act the part of child anymore.

“We should hurry,” Bran said, his jaw clenched, and his brows furrowed.

There was an explosion in the distance, that made the stone underneath their feet tremble slightly.

“What in the Makers’ name was that?” Mother demanded, and Rosina smiled, sharp and brittle.

“That would be Davia’s additions to our defence,” the elf informed them with a proud glint in her pale green eyes and a bloodthirsty twist to her smile.

“We may not have a castle left to defend if they are all like that,” Mother muttered as Bran took point.

“Castles can be rebuilt,” Caitlyn spoke carefully, trying not to move her lips overly much. “People can’t.”

Mother pursed her lips, a hint of chagrin colouring her otherwise pale face, but said nothing.

Lileas brushed her shoulder against Kenna’s, and Shadow’s warmth was a comfort against her back as they headed towards the sound of fighting.

More blood would be spilled, more deaths would be dealt, and old nightmares would be confronted.

* * *

Clashing of swords and shields, the twang of the bows, it was chaos, it was battle.

Death lingered, watchful and cold, and Kenna’s blood was pumped hotly through her veins by the war-drum that had replaced her heart.

The force that Fergus had left behind was small, outnumbered, but they weren’t unprepared, they hadn’t been caught off-guard, and they fought back fiercely, making the enemy pay for each death of their own.

Howe’s men had been prepared to fight unarmoured, unprepared, soldiers and the shock of facing furious, armed and armoured opponents kept them unbalanced that they didn’t even notice them coming down the corridor and flanking them.

They crashed into them, blades flashing and digging through leather as Cait and Mother kept their distance and fired arrows at their enemies, hitting them in the eye or throat or pinning their legs.

There was a tingle in the back of her mind, a warning, and Kenna turned, too late, and could only clench her teeth to stop the scream as Oriana fell back with blank and forever startled dark eyes.

“Oriana!”

Cait had seen what Kenna had, and Kenna locked on the archer that had taken Oriana, her sister, Fergus’ wife, Oren’s mother, from them and began to cut a bloody path to him with Shadow guarding her back.

Shoving one of her swords through his throat didn’t bring Oriana back, it didn’t suddenly make things better, but there was a grim sense of justice to watching him slid limply off her blade and onto the stone floor.

It was that grim justice that she would have to comfort herself with, or at least attempt to.

They couldn’t stop, couldn’t take Oriana with them, had to leave her there with her killer and enemies like they had to with Ser Kenneth, and Kenna had to clench her jaw to stop the burning in her eyes turning into proper tears as she jerkily followed Bran towards the Main Hall.

She didn’t look back, couldn’t look back, and she hated, Kenna hated so much.

_Why couldn’t I have seen it before? Maker, why? Why couldn’t I save her? How am I meant to tell Fergus that I failed him?_

* * *

Howe had brought a mage into the Castle, had brought a mage into her home, and Lileas thought he considered himself clever, that they wouldn’t have a defence for magic.

Lileas could have been the one that fought her, could have matched her magic against the intruder’s, could have used everything that Mirwen had taught her and crushed the other mage with her own magical might, but she didn’t need to.

Shadow honed-in on her with narrowed eyes and dark furrowed brows almost as soon as they entered the fray, had used his weighted-chain to wrap around her throat and pull her so she impaled herself on his sword, too panicked or unused to not invoking spells out loud to defend herself from her coming death, hands still reaching up and trying to loosen the bands of chain wrapped around her slim neck.

He had dropped her, a deride curve to his lips when he unwrapped his chain from around her purpling neck, looking almost dissatisfied by how quickly she was taken out before he turned and flicked out his chain, entangling it around the sword heading for Kenna’s back, and pulling harshly till it was almost coming out of the other man’s hands.

Kenna turned at the startled shout, the man trying to hold on to his sword, and buried both of her swords in his stomach, twisting as she pulled them out, ignoring him and letting him bleed out as she went for another one.

 _Mirwen would have scoffed, called her a pampered Tower-brat_ , Lileas thought to herself with some dark humour as she twisted around enemies and allies alike, jabbing and impaling with all the skill Ser Morgan had instilled in her.

It was a quick battle, they were enclosed in one room and the doors were guarded by their people so more couldn’t stream in.

“The door! Don’t let those bastards through!” Ser Morgan shouted out almost as soon as the last body dropped, and soldiers and knights almost threw themselves at the door, pressing bodily against it and keeping out the rest of the enemy.

“Ser Gilmore!” Teyrna Eleanor called out and the young Knight turned towards the other woman, a look of relief spreading over his face.

“Teyrna Cousland, you’re safe,” he let out a sound of relief as he let his gaze skim over the Couslands gathered in the room. “We were worried, some got through.”

“More then just some,” Brannon informed him grimly.

“Have you seen my husband?” Teyrna Eleanor demanded, and Lileas winced when Ser Gilmore hesitated, glancing over his shoulder towards Ser Morgan as if hoping for her to rescue him from having to break the news.

Ser Morgan, though, was blind to his hopes as she listened to Brannon’s account of their flight from their quarters to here.

“Ser Gilmore,” Teyrna Eleanor repeated almost impatiently, a light of fear in her stormy eyes, “where is my husband?”

“The Pantry, my Lady,” Ser Gilmore hesitated, “it’s bad, my Lady. The Grey Warden Mage was doing his best, but—”

“Thank you,” the Teyrna cut him off, her lips trembling just once.

“You need to get out, all of you,” Ser Morgan broke away from her conservation and pinned them with her dark gaze, “we’ll hold them back for as long as we can.”

Lileas glanced towards Kenna, taking in the way she clenched and unclenched her jaw as she watched the tiring defenders press against the shuddering door, ready to give their lives to give them time.

She briefly met Shadow’s pale gaze, the furrow of his brows as he hovered next to Kenna and heaved a sigh as she slipped her glaive on her back and strode towards the corpse of the mage that Shadow so easily killed.

This was her home, these were her people, and she had trained for this.

“Lileas?” Rosina called in confusion as Lileas reached down for the discarded staff.

Lileas ignored her sister, bracing herself and testing the feel of the staff in her hand.

She shuddered as the staff’s own magic reached out eagerly towards hers, mixing and amplifying—she had never gotten used to using a staff, had never liked using the staff that Mirwen had hidden away.

“Get ready to move,” she called out to the men as she gripped the staff with both hands and raised it, she waited for their nod of understanding before she brought it down.

The foci-crystal around her neck and atop the staff flared with power—hers, theirs—as the butt of the staff slammed into the ground with all her might.

The floor rumbled, shuddered, centuries-old flagstone crumbled as larger roots burst out and lunged towards the door, the men jumping away cursing, as it slammed into the shuddering wooden door, roots twisting, turning upon themselves, anchoring with the doorframe and floor, twisting in a spiral and forcing the door closed, barring the way to their enemies.

“Maker….” “She’s a mage?” “Andraste’s mercy,” “Did you know?” “How did she hide it?” “Lady Kenna—”

A hand clasped around her elbow, steadying her, a hand as familiar as her own—golden tanned, long fingers and a rough palm—and Lileas glanced up, slightly winded but exhilarated at the same time, at Kenna.

Kenna looked at the twist of roots as hard as Iron Wood, and the look on her face warmed Lileas.

There was no surprise, no shock, just satisfaction and pride because there had been no doubt in her mind, of course Lileas would able to pull iron-hard roots from stone.

Kenna looked at her and smiled, filled with pride for Lileas, filled with affectionate for Lileas.

It was like being warmed by the sun, Lileas thought as she smiled back and ignored the whispers, the shock behind her.

 _“I saw who you would become, brilliant and beautiful, and mine—my friend, my confident, mine.”_ Kenna’s declaration repeated in the back of her head, and for the first time, Lileas believed in it whole-heartedly, believed it—her—with all her heart and soul.

“Thank you,” Kenna told her as she squeezed her elbow, and Lileas shrugged lightly, helplessly, a slight sheen of sweat on her brow as she had put as much magic in the roots as she could spare.

 _Like I could do anything else_ , Lileas thought but didn’t say.

“Now that’s sorted out,” Lord Brannon called out, only looking a little bit surprised and thrown by Lileas’ actions. “Men slaughter the bastards that have already broken through, grab some supplies—I don’t know what my sisters have arranged, but more couldn’t hurt—and get down to Lowever. Our people will need you to defend them in the coming days.”

“You heard Lord Brannon,” Ser Morgan snapped when the soldiers and knights lingered, still dazed by Lileas’ feat of magic. “Get to it now.”

They no longer hesitated, hasting to fulfil the command of both Lord Brannon and their new Commander as Kenna and Lileas walked back to the others, the staff laying forgotten and unneeded behind them.

“What are you going to do?” Ser Morgan asked quietly as Shadow took his place at Kenna’s back with a twitch of a smile and a nod towards Lileas.

“We’re going to find our father,” Lady Caitlyn carefully spoke, the paste had hardened on the gash across her face, kept it together, but she still needed to be careful not to cause it to crack.

Lileas felt a pang of regret that she had never been able to cast even the most simplest of healing spells.

“We won’t be back for some time,” Kenna added, warning Ser Morgan as Lileas avoided Rosina’s searching gaze, “there’s a Blight to be fought and defeated of course.”

Ser Morgan’s lips firmed, but she wasn’t surprised, was probably well aware of the packs tucked down the tunnel waiting for them.

“We’ll keep these bastards on their toes till you can return,” the knight promised them.

She glanced over the hall, pausing at the roots for a brief moment, before she nodded at them and turned to leave.

She paused and looked at them, serious and firm.

“Don’t die out there,” she told them, commanded them, before she stalked out of the Hall with her sword and shield in hand.

* * *

Kenna wasn’t sure if it was worst or better that she knew what was coming as they hurried towards the Kitchen and to the Pantry where Father was.

Her heart-beat was fast, a drum of war in her chest, that didn’t slow as they fought the few stragglers that made it this far, didn’t slow as they came ever closer.

It seemed to beat louder then the cut off screams from further away, from the crashes and booms of Davia’s traps, of the crackling of fire that licked hungrily at her home.

Kenna almost felt like she could fall into a dream-like daze as she followed the route burned in her mind, but it wasn’t a dream, wasn’t a nightmare.

No, now it was reality, and she no longer attempted to lie to herself about what she was about to find, about the state of her father, a father she had been mourning for twelve years already and was mourning anew for.

The door to the kitchen was open, the glow-lamps were dim, and the fire had been doused.

Moonlight struggled through the narrow windows and tried to illuminate the empty and mostly untouched kitchen—no servants, no Cook, no Nan—something that made a knot loosen in her chest—they were safe, they had listened, they hadn’t tried to be stubborn.

There was a trail that glistened sinisterly in the moonlight and led towards the partly open pantry door.

There was a familiar glow spilling through the gap, the glow that foretold magically healing instead of glow-lamps, and Mother didn’t hesitate, wouldn’t hesitate when the man she loved with all her heart was finally in reach.

“Bryce!” she called for her husband, grief, hope and fury battling in her tone as she entered the pantry with hard eyes and a heavy-heart.

Bran faltered, just like he always faltered in her dreams, as he came face to face with the reality he hadn’t wanted to face.

He just stopped in the doorway, staring inwardly and Kenna didn’t have to look at his face to know how devastated he felt, she had heard the sharp inhale as he was hit with grief, strong and real.

“There you all are,” Father’s voice came, weak and wavering, dying, and Kenna moved, following the script.

She ducked under Bran’s arm attempting to bar the way, Cait didn’t try to reach out, and Shadow and Lileas was right behind her as they entered the pantry.

Ciarron Amell—friend, brother—was there beside Father, pressing glowing hands close to his sweeping stomach, ignoring the blood and guts, as he focused with a grim set to his mouth.

Mother was beside Father, not seeming to notice the blood sticking to her knees as she pressed him close, allowed him to lean on her in his moment of weakness.

Kenna kept her gaze from drifting down, from seeing her father’s guts being held in with his own hands and help of a mage that could only ease his passing.

Arian Mahariel lingered in the shadows, leaning against the wall with sword in hand—he looked worse in the dim light then he had at dinner.

His skin was washed out, milky-tea with black veins hidden under arm, and dark hair clung to a sweaty face, eyes standing out and reflecting the little light in the room.

“I had feared the worse,” Father confessed, wheezing from pain as he turned his face into Mother’s neck.

“Don’t talk, my love,” Mother soothed him, a hand brushing over his hair as she allowed him to rest his head on her shoulder, gaze looking towards the mage with dread and hope. “Can he be moved?”

Ciarron grimaced as he leaned back on his heels, his sky-blue eyes grim in the light of his healing magic, and he shook his head once making the hope in Mother’s gaze shatter quietly and resignation to take its place.

“Father….” Kenna spoke, her voice strangled by the surge of emotions at the sight of him—grief, guilt, rage, blame—as Bran finally moved on heavy legs, leaning against the wall and allowing Cait and Rosina to follow them in.

Rosina gave a suppressed retch as the smell and sight hit her while Cait let out a soft strangled gasping cry.

Lileas pressed a shoulder against hers and Shadow pressed closer to her back.

“Kenna,” Father reached out with one blood-stained hand, and Kenna bit her lip bloody as she stumbled forward and took it. “I’m sorry, I should have listened.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Kenna didn’t cry though her breathing hitched as Caitlyn carefully lowered herself down beside her.

“Father,” Cait gave a hitching soft cry, tears in her eyes as her hands hovered uselessly.

“I should have listened to you, my clever girl,” Father wheezed painfully making Mother pressed her lips together tightly.

“Where is your Commander?” Bran asked Ciarron and Arian, unable to listen to Father’s regrets.

“We are here,” Warden-Commander Duncan spoke from behind, sheathing his blades with Warden Sirena Tabris stalking at his side with feline grace.

“Duncan,” Father spoke up, weak and trembling, “please, you face to get my family to safety.”

A chill made its way down Kenna’s back as she looked up to see the placid look on Duncan’s face while Sirena stalked over to Arian and let him lean on her.

“I came for a recruit,” Duncan reminded Father mildly, “and I can’t leave without one.”

“Duncan..” Ciarron’s gaze jerked up, shocked and horror-struck, but Duncan ignored him.

“What has happened tonight pales to what horror the Blight will bring,” Duncan informed Father.

“How dare you…” Kenna whispered as Caitlyn’s muscles all seemed to lock up.

“You….want…one of my children?” Father’s eyes, Cait’s eyes, were a fading shade of deep blue as his gaze flickered.

“With your permission,” Duncan inclined his head and Mother hissed through clenched teeth.

“And you’ll save my family?” Father pressed, “and keep them save?”

“You have my word,” Duncan bowed his head almost humbly as Sirena’s mouth took on a jaded twist.

“I’ll do,” Bran stepped forward, glaring at Duncan before turning to Father, “I’ll do it.”

“With my permission,” Father nodded weakly.

“We should go now,” Duncan straightened as he looked over his shoulder, “I’m sure Howe’s men will have found another way in by now.”

“Eleanor,” Father pulled his hand from Kenna’s to reach for Mother’s cheek.

“I’m staying,” Mother told him firmly, “you can’t make me leave you, I made a vow and I intend to keep it.”

“I am so sorry,” he told her, breathing hitching.

“We had a good life,” she told him in return.

“Mother,” Cait almost whimpered and Bran placed one hand on her shoulder.

“Go, you must all go,” Mother told them firmly, resolved.

“Bran,” Father reached out and Bran took him while Mother took her chance.

She cupped Kenna’s jaw with one hand and stroked her fire-coloured hair with another, drinking in her face with calm eyes.

“I love you, my darling girl,” Mother informed her with slight tremble to her voice.

“I know,” Kenna replied with quiet certainty, a hitch of rage and grief, but no surprise. “I love you too.”

“Live,” she almost begged her while commanding her, “live long, strong and happy,” she looked at Cait then, “both of you.”

“We will,” Cait promised, eyes wet.

“I’ll make them pay for this,” Kenna promised.

“I know you will,” Mother barred her teeth in a grin, the same bloodthirsty grin that earned her the name of Seawolf, a grin that Kenna echoed easily, without thinking. “You need to go now.”

Kenna pulled back, nodding, exchanging a silent goodbye with Father as she reached for Cait, and Cait—who never once hesitated when it came to Kenna—took her hand and pulled her close, a comforting arm wrapped around her as they got to their feet.

Father groaned as he was propped up against the wall while Mother stood and readied her bow.

“I love you,” he told her, wheezing heavily, and Mother gave him a loving smile.

“And I love you,” Mother replied easily as Bran herded them for the tunnel with a clenched jaw, “it’s up to our children now, and they will be glorious.”

“Yes,” Father wheezed out a light laugh, “they will be.”

And the hidden door to the tunnel closed tightly behind them, Lileas conjuring an orb of light—their mage-light—into being.

Caitlyn clutched her tightly as they walked, forcing their feet forward, and refusing to look back at the empty darkness behind them.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

_“The Grey Wardens hold a lonely vigil, enduring lives of hardship and sacrifice to protect the world from an evil that can never truly be conquered._

_Few would volunteer for this: the suffering, isolation, and promise of a violent death._

_But the path of a Warden is also one of valour, and those who give themselves to the cause are rewarded with the knowledge that they have become something more than they were.”_

* * *

Kenna thought it wouldn’t hurt so much, it wouldn’t cut so deep, that she had prepared herself enough, that her dreams had prepared her enough, but that was a lie.

There was still a hole in her heart, a great gaping wound that used to hold the steady presence her parents, used to hold Oriana’s smile and love, and it was weeping blood and pain, anger and grief, as they followed the Wardens and their two recruits, Caitlyn’s arm tight around her and her pack hanging off one shoulder.

Cait kept giving these hitched breathes as she was doing her best not to cry, not to break down into tears and loose all the tight control she had over herself, each hitched inhale and shaky exhale made the wound in her heart throb angrily, painfully, and Kenna roughly rubbed at her eyes with the back of her fist.

Bran’s back was taunted in the dim light as he walked in front of them, hand wrapped tight around the hilt of family-sword—a sword he would have to give up before he took the chalice and became a Grey Warden—and there was the odd tremble to his shoulders from supressing his own emotions.

 _That_ man—Duncan—lead them down the tunnel with only Lileas’ mage-lights to see and didn’t seem bothered by the massacre they had left behind, the way he had stood calmly before their dying father and blackmailed him to get his precious recruit—just thinking about it almost made her see red.

Arian was just behind him, one arm wrapped around the strong shoulders of Sirena as they followed.

“I can heal that if you wish,” Ciarron offered as he twisted next to Bran to look at Cait, the dim light casting his bearded face into shadows.

“I’m fine,” Cait declined after a pointed look at Ciarron’s hands, still glistening with their father’s blood, and Ciarron jerked, rubbing his hands on his robes almost frantically.

“Maker,” he breathed in a tone of horror, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re compassionate,” Kenna spoke up, Bran’s shoulder twitched, and her mind more focused on the pain in her chest then what she was saying, “I never could decide if that was a good thing or not.”

“Pardon?” Ciarron blinked at her, confusion almost oozing from him.

“It’s nothing,” Bran insisted in a sharp snap as Caitlyn squeezed her closer like she was trying to mend them together, “just leave it.”

Ciarron’s shoulders slumped slightly as he faced forward as they continued walking down the long tunnel.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated to them softly, heartfelt in his regret for everything that had happened tonight and not just for offering to heal with his hands covered in their father’s blood.

“I should be sorry,” Kenna said almost numbly, “I didn’t try hard enough, I should have, should have told them earlier, should have proved—”

“Kenna!” Bran snapped while Caitlyn almost whispered her name in a pained tone. “That’s enough.”

“Bran,” Cait pleaded, arm tightening almost protectively around her, and Bran’s shoulders tightened further before slumping in ashamed defeat.

“I’m sorry,” he glanced over his shoulder at Kenna, “but please, stop.”

Kenna chewed on her lip and nodded as cool slim fingers briefly wrapped around her wrist and squeezed.

“Thank you,” Bran exhaled deeply in some relief.

Kenna kept putting one foot in front of another as she drifted and let images unfold in her minds’ eye.

Fergus was safe, he and the forces had made camp and would continue at first light to get to Ostagar with all swiftness—worry and frustration would make him want to get there fast and release as much tension as possible fighting darkspawn.

They didn’t have horses so they would be two weeks behind Fergus, when they arrived he wouldn’t be there.

He would be leading a scouting mission, so they would be relieved from informing him, from having to tell him that Kenna had failed to save Oriana, to save his wife, that she hadn’t known and hadn’t tried hard enough to know when she first realised that she couldn’t see Oriana’s future, and it was—

Shadow’s hand landed heavily on her shoulder, he must have squeezed himself through Lileas and Rosina, and he squeezed it tightly, breaking from her downward spiral of thoughts.

“Thank you,” Kenna almost croaked, her throat tight, and Shadow kept his hand on her shoulder as they walked, just with the Surana sisters at their back instead of him.

The warmth of his hand seemed to soak through leather, chainmail and her woollen tunic, a silent but constant comfort.

 

* * *

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Rosina asked her quietly, her voice hushed, but it still seemed too loud in the enclosed tunnel, and Lileas winced slightly at the hurt undertone to her sister’s voice.

“I don’t know,” Lileas admitted honestly as she reached up to play with the foci crystal and kept her gaze fixed on the board expanse of Shadow’s back.

Lileas didn’t know if she would have told Rosina, didn’t know how she could just tell her if she had been able to decided too before she exposed her magic in front of everyone.

Lileas had never actually told anyone that she was a mage, had never had too:

Kenna had informed her, Giles had figured it out, Asaaranda’s mother had been a mage and they knew what a foci-necklace looked like, and Shadow seemed to have a sixth-sense when it came to mages as he just seemed to take one look at her and know.

The Little Birds had probably spied on her to find out about her private lessons with Mirwen, and just never said a word—they knew how to keep a secret and they were all loyal to Kenna.  

“Did you not trust me?” Rosina asked after a sharp inhale, “did you think I would turn you in? Did you think I would tell someone?”

“You would have told Lady Caitlyn,” Lileas replied without any doubt, and the golden head of said lady twitched as if she was tempted to look behind her.

Because if the shoe was on the other foot?

Lileas knew she would have told Kenna, and no doubt the fiery-haired noble would have done the same thing for Rosina as she did for Lileas if only because of Lileas.

Because Lileas was hers, and Lileas loved her sister, and Kenna would want her to be happy and helping her sister, keeping her from the Tower, that would make Lileas happy and that would be enough of a reason for Kenna.

“Not if I thought it would put you in danger,” Rosina grabbed her arm and forced her to look at her as they stopped, “you are the most important person in my life, I would have never put you at risk.”

“But you knowing would have put you at risk,” Lileas retorted, remembering the guilt and fear she felt as Kenna looked for a teacher, the knowledge that even her noble birth wouldn’t protect her if someone figured it out, “if I was found out, if they knew that you knew and said nothing, you would have been punished. It was bad enough with Lady Kenna knowing and actively helping me hide it, I couldn’t risk anything happening to you either.”

“Lileas,” Rosina softened, “I’m your big sister,” the silent addition of ‘your mother’ was still heard between them and it was true in every way that mattered because what was a mother than a woman that looked after you, raised you, feed you, nursed you when you were sick and comforted you? Everything that Rosina had done despite only being six-years older than her. “I’m meant to protect _you_.”

“And I’m your little sister,” Lileas squeezed Rosina’s hand, “with Lady Kenna as an example, can you really blame me for trying my hardest to protect you too?”

Rosina snorted softly in response, amused and perhaps slightly understanding Lileas’ point, and they silently decided to catch up with the group.

Things had been aired, but it had still caused a rift between them, hurt feelings lingered.

But now wasn’t the time to get into it, to try and settle it, not when they could still taste the blood in the air, and they hadn’t yet reached the end of the tunnel, hadn’t yet reached the promise of safety—imagined or real, it didn’t really matter as long as it was away from here, from the blood and memories.

So, they just linked their hands, exchanging unspoken apologises and understanding with squeezes, as they continued to walk away from their home of the last nine-years and the ghosts that would now haunt the halls.

 

* * *

It was almost noon before Bran Cousland and Duncan both agreed to stop in the forest surrounding Highever and far from any beaten roads—something they were hopeful would mean the riders that Howe would no doubt send after them wouldn’t find them while they took an hour or two of rest.

Sirena had sat herself down after almost dropping Arian flat on the dirt, the Dalish grunting and sending her a glare as shifted his aching body into a sitting position against one of the trees that circled the small clearing, and Sirena tended to her blades while keeping a discreet eye on the Couslands.

Ciarron had hesitated after setting the wards around their little ‘camp’, glancing to where the Cousland party was stripping off layers and shrugging off armour to check for wounds, looking like he was about to step forward and offer his healing before Lileas Surana stepped forward with the crystal around her neck glowing softly as she drew glittering runes in the air with one slim finger as she added her own wards to their side of the camp—the silent ‘keep away and out’ heard loud and clear by all of the Wardens and recruits.

(Sirena didn’t try to figure out the hot rush and mix of feelings that Lileas and Rosina Surana invoked in her.

Alienage elves like her that were accepted by human nobles, who sat beside them and ate the same food, while Sirena had to steal to make sure that none of her family starved, when her family was hurt by human nobles, treated as lesser.

It is a childish envy mostly, and she didn’t have time for that.)

Thankfully for Arian, Ciarron quickly moved over to him and did the magic-healing trick that Arian’s Keeper had showed him.

Colour flooded slowly back into Arian’s cheeks as he leaned back against one of the trees and let out a relieved groan, eyelids fluttering close as tension seeped out of his body.

Duncan was setting-up a campfire, utterly calm in face of being near hostile allies—and barely allies at that—in a way that almost always made the short hair on the nape of her neck stand up.

It implied confidence, a confidence that if they attacked then he could take care of himself, it was a confidence that she didn’t want to see if it was just bravado or real.

Sirena kept an eye on the Couslands party—it looked like she was the only one that would, who could see the less then pleasant feelings that looking at Duncan invoked in them and she was used to seeing the worst in people, used to watching them and picking them apart.

Rosina Surana—elder sister to the mage, Lileas, fought with twin daggers, favoured leading with her right hand, quiet and subtle—was carefully cleaning the paste of Caitlyn Cousland’s face, fresh blood bubbling up as the golden-haired Cousland kept as still as possible.

The Lady Caitlyn kept her bright blue eyes closed—younger sister to the recruit, Bran, and older sister to Kenna, preferred to keep her distance when she fought, sharp and controlled—and didn’t let her mouth fall into a grimace under her handmaiden’s gentle touch.

Neither of them would break the fragile peace between the two groups.

The Lady wasn’t a fighter despite her skill with the bow, her real weapons were words and political power, not something she had in spades now her family’s castle had been taken over and she was forced to run, and Rosina would follow her Lady’s lead more than anything, Sirena figured.

If Duncan survived the Blight—and that was a rather big IF considering Duncan had confided to Alistair that he believed he was starting to hear the Calling within Sirena’s hearing—and Highever was back under Cousland control, then Sirena could see her doing something, dealing a cold revenge for the treatment of her father in his final moments.

Sirena’s gaze flickered over to Bran, the recruit—elder brother, dual-wielder, sword and dagger, block, parry, stab, protective—had stripped down to his trousers and was furiously cleaning his blades and armour clean of blood.

As long as his sisters’ safety were guaranteed, he would do nothing against Duncan and would go through the Joining without complaint.

He was protective of both his younger sisters, had given up his life—given up his ship and crew, his freedom—to become a Warden in their place without a second of hesitation, hadn’t even let Duncan try to pick his little sisters.

Sirena admired that, understood that, as she had done the same for her cousin.

She had stood alone to face justice, claimed full responsibility, to safe Soris from the noose.

It was also the best decision.

Bran was the eldest of the three of them, he had actual experience in fighting and was skilled at it.

Caitlyn wasn’t a fighter, and Kenna was inexperienced due to her young age.

Bran was the only one that made sense to become the recruit—though Sirena wasn’t sure if Duncan had actually chosen which Cousland he wanted as a recruit, she just knew that he had wanted one of the Cousland children as a Warden for some reason that Sirena didn’t know and wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

 _Which left_ , Sirena’s gaze shifted and lingered on the youngest Cousland, _the only real threat in the party_.

Like her elder brother, Kenna Cousland had stripped down to just a shift and her trousers as she sat and ran her rough hands over the dark leather coat—another dual-wielder, two short swords, two daggers in her boots, parry, redirect, stab, slice, fierce—and had her mute Shadow pulling up her shift to prod at the bruises blossoming against her ribs—tall, capable with several weapons, strong, loyal—who had also stripped down to his trousers, showing off deep olive scarred skin over hard muscles—whips scars across his back, multiple and old, scarring around his wrist, an ex-slave that had sworn himself to the youngest Cousland despite being several years older.

Lileas Surana—mage, fought with a glaive first before her magic, powerful, loyal, protective—settled down beside her Lady and was carefully unpacking bandages and such from her pack with steady slim hands.

If someone was going to break the peace and attempt to attack them—Duncan, really—it would be Kenna Cousland and with those two right behind her and ready to defend.

Sirena had seen the seething hatred that had appeared in her gaze when she looked at Duncan in the pantry, she had felt such seething hatred in the past and she had killed the object of her hatred so she wouldn’t be surprised if Kenna would do—or at least attempt to do—the same.

But only if her sister didn’t restrain her, dampen her rage and hatred. Something that was very possible.  

“I could help,” Ciarron almost fidgeted as he stood on the invisible boundary-line between the two sides, sky-blue eyes lingering on Caitlyn’s face and gazing on the bruises blooming across pale skin—a stark contrast to the rest of Kenna’s sun-kissed golden skin. “I’m a healer.”

“We’re fine,” Bran looked up from beneath his fringe of dark hair, his hand sliding a cloth sharply across his sword.

“But—” Ciarron’s gaze lingered on Caitlyn’s face.

“A scar won’t bother me,” Caitlyn informed him as she opened her eyes while Rosina carefully coated the wound with another layer that red paste, the untouched part of her mouth ticking up in a false smile.

 _Lie_ , Sirena noted as she peered closely at her daggers, twisting it in the light to make sure all the blood had been cleaned off, while Ciarron frowned lightly, unconvinced but not quite willing to push it.

“It’s bruises,” Kenna shrugged lightly as she turned her attention to her swords when Ciarron turned to her almost hopefully, “slap some paste on them, wrap the ribs just in case, and I’m fine.”

“You’re concern is appreciated, but unnecessary,” Lileas added almost politely as she began to rub a pale paste into Kenna’s probably aching ribs, the noble just letting a hiss escape as she kept still.

“You’re in pain—”

“Our parents are dead,” Bran pushed himself to his feet and glared at the mage making him take a step back, “our sister-in-law is dead, our home is in the hands of a traitor and murderer, of course we’re in pain!”

He advanced, standing close, maybe just a foot away from Ciarron as he glared, his face twisted with grief and rage.

“Bran,” Caitlyn exhaled deeply, sounding pained, “please, don’t.”

Bran stopped, still glaring, chest heaving with emotion before he slumped into himself, like the wind had been taken out of his sails and turned back to his discarded armour and weapon with a grunt that could be an apology.

Ciarron inhaled shakily, Sirena winced slightly, almost sympathetic on his behalf—he was almost too soft for his own good, Sirena remembered thinking when Duncan first invoked the right on the stunned and emotionally hurt mage that didn’t even attempt to defend himself, sky-blue gaze directed to where his once-friend had been.

“I’m sorry,” the mage said after a moment as he retreated back to Arian.

The Dalish had wanted with keen eyes and only held out a piece of jerky as Ciarron almost flopped next to him.

The human mage grimaced slightly in distaste, but still took the jerky and chomped at it.

Arian, satisfied that his comfort had been taken, shoved his own jerky in his mouth and chewed sharply and forcefully as he relaxed against the tree.

“Well,” Sirena leaned back after she sheathed her dagger, “this is going to be pleasant trip back to Ostagar—I can already feel the warm fuzzy feelings in my chest.”

“Sirena,” Duncan sighed as he leaned back on his heels while Kenna snorted, amused despite herself.

“What?” Sirena flashed the noble girl a fierce grin, a wild bare of her teeth. “Can’t you see we’re bonding? We’re going to be best friends by the end of this.”

“As long as my brother remains in one piece, I suppose you wouldn’t be too bad, Warden,” Kenna bared her teeth back, wild and fierce, and Sirena’s type of person—it was a shame that neither of them trusted the other, that they were straddling on a line between wary allies and enemies because of Duncan’s cold-hearted and foolishly considered actions against the noble’s dying father.

“You’re not bad yourself, Noble,” Sirena informed her making Duncan sigh deeply once again—truly, Sirena had made it an artform to get Duncan to let out that resigned and almost pained sigh though she was normally playing off Alistair’s quips.

“Gods,” Arian swallowed his jerky and groaned as he leaned his head back against the bark, eyes closed and a resigned look on his face, “take me now, I will not put up with another one.”

“You’re going to live,” Kenna informed him as Shadow and Lileas took it in turns to wrap the bandages firmly around her chest, “you’re too damn stubborn to die.”

Arian flicked open one dark eye and peered at Kenna almost searchingly as Sirena’s brows raised without her permission.

Because her tone? Her tone was too knowing, too certain, when Sirena was half-convinced she would wake up one day to see him still and cool to the touch because of the corruption in his veins or his mind gone, and she would have to take him down like the darkspawn bastards that infected him.  

“Kenna,” Caitlyn sighed, a silent warning in her tone, while Bran’s shoulders went tight as he hunched more firmly over his gear.

Kenna’s jaw clenched, but she remained silent as she rolled her shift back down and then turned to look over Shadow, one had reaching up and cupping the tattoo on his neck as she prodded against his chest in a mimic of what he had done earlier while Lileas finally stripped off her coat and began to clean the blade of her glaive—it seemed she had come out of the battle unharmed—magic armour? Possible, something that didn’t need constant focus, or her foci would have been glowing long before, something to ponder and wonder, maybe ask when feelings were so raw.

 _Interesting_ , Sirena couldn’t help but think.

But then again, the Couslands had turned out to be very interesting—for human nobles anyway.  

“We should rest as much as possible,” Duncan said as he shifted to be more comfortable and not actually lighting the fire he had built, probably saving it for just before they leave—get a hottish meal in them before they continued to ‘run’ for their lives. “Take the chance to sleep now, I will keep watch.”

Shadow nudged Kenna’s shoulders and raised his brows, she nodded slightly as she turned to her siblings, ignoring Duncan completely with only a clenched jaw to show her feelings towards the older man.

“Shadow will keep watch,” she told them making Bran and Caitlyn nod in understanding, a hint of relief relaxing the tense line of Bran’s shoulders and softening Caitlyn’s face.

“Thank you, Shadow,” Caitlyn smiled at him as Rosina began setting up the bedrolls with Lileas and Kenna shrugged on her midnight-blue tunic back on, folding her vests and jacket.

Shadow bowed his head slightly to the noble woman after he tugged his tunic back on before settling himself down against one of the trees, laying his sword partly unsheathed across his legs.

“Kenna,” Caitlyn called as she moved over to the row of three bedrolls as the Surana laid out the last two for themselves.

Bran slid in the bedroll closest to the Warden camp, laying on his back with one arm tucked under his head and the other folded over his stomach, while Caitlyn took the bedroll nearer to the trees and lay on her side, so her back was towards the trees and leaving Kenna with the middle bedroll.

Sirena watched in interest as she crawled in it, pulling the covering over herself as Caitlyn reached out and pulled her close, Kenna tucking her fiery-hair under Caitlyn’s chin as one hand gripped the back of Caitlyn’s tunic tightly while Caitlyn’s hand cupped the back of her head.

It was like a child seeking comfort from its’ mother, not a sister seeking comfort from a sister.

Arian didn’t even move, just closed his eyes and drifted off in a way that Sirena figured was unique to the Dalish, the ability to sleep anywhere while Ciarron rolled out his bedroll between sneaking concerned glances over at the Cousland party—his soft-heart would get him in more trouble one day, Sirena figured.

Sirena decided to finish looking over her weapons before she napped, not surprised to feel the pale eyes watching her—Shadow’s ‘watch’ was more focused on the Wardens then any men of Howe’s stumbling upon them after all.

* * *

_There was something very wrong, Thomas knew as he rode through Highever with the last of the soldiers; all ready to march off to Ostagar and fight the darkspawn beside the King— **he didn’t know, she realised with relief, he hadn’t been part of the plan**._

_There was a hush to the city; there was no calls from the market, no laughter of children playing, just a chilly and damning silence that settled heavily on Thomas’ chest with dread._

_Wane faces watched them pass from windows and doorways, the people were silent as they watched with hard eyes and thinned lips._

_There was a seething rage in those hard eyes, a burning hatred as they watched Thomas and ‘his’ men ride towards the Castle, but none of them said a word._

_Thomas’ hands clenched around the reins, something cold slithered down his spine as he forced himself to look forward and not at the people that were watching him as if they wished they could kill him with the force of their glares and emotions._

_Had Giles put them up to this because of his declaration that he would elope with Kenna? Thomas thought to himself, if so, then the spy-master had gone too far._

_It wasn’t until he got to the Castle that Thomas realised why they were staring at him, why the whole city seemed to covered in a hush cloud of mourning._

_He almost fell off his horse, the beast neighing as it side-stepped away, and landed on his hands and knees on the ground just in time for everything he had eaten recently to splatter against the stone under him._

_He coughed, his back shaking, tears brimming and sliding down his face as bile joined the mess._

_There was a restless stirring from the men he was meant to be leading, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care._

_“Thomas,” his father’s voice snapped beside him when he was just dry-heaving, shuddering and still hunched over the mess. “Get up.”_

_He pushed himself up to his knees with shaky arms and stared up his father, at his hard face, and wouldn’t let him gaze wander, wouldn’t let it wander to the walls because if he did, if he looked, he would have to search for a head of fiery-locks and he didn’t want to deal with the reality, didn’t want the chance to find it, find her hanging there, dead at his father’s hands._

_“What have you done?” Thomas demanded hoarsely, horror clear in his tone as tears continued to slide down his face._

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note; I've been toying with this idea and chapter for over a week, I will easily admit that this is so far the only chapter I've written, but I wanted to get it out there and I'm looking forward to the feedback. I've never posted on this site, so I hope you like it.


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